Shadows Passing
by SoWrightSoWrong
Summary: Three years after their parting, Phoenix and Edgeworth don't recognize each other when they meet again. PxE, written for the kink meme.
1. Edgeworth, Part 1

A/N: Currently writing this for the PW Kink Meme. The prompt: _Post GS3 (like way after), Phoenix and Edgeworth meet up with each other (possibly in a new workplace or something), but neither of them recognize each other, and they don't talk so they never get the other's name. After a short while, the two of them fall for each other but don't want to admit it because each still feels dedicated to his old lover. Eventually one caves and so on..._

I took some huge liberties with the prompt, mainly so I could fit in a somewhat plausible reason as to why they wouldn't recognize each other. So you get loads of plot! Hooray?

Also, I got a lot of inspiration from the movie _Memento_; if you haven't seen it, basically there's a color sequence and a black-and-white sequence that alternate throughout the movie. One sequence goes forward in time while the other goes backwards. Keep that in mind for the flashbacks.

That said, hope you don't find this too disappointing...

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 1

The café is miles away from the school, but it's the only place he can find that sells bubble tea, and even though he knows that it's unhealthy, he cannot help but indulge himself. After all, he has found precious few things that have comforted him in the past three years.

He tells the woman at the counter his order, then sits down at a booth, his hand reaching up automatically to adjust his cravat as he does so. There is nothing there, of course, but the collar of his black button-down: three years, he thinks to himself, and he still hasn't broken the habit. When will he finally accept it? Gone are the cravats, the magenta suits. Gone are his days as a prosecutor.

And gone are his nights with Phoenix Wright.

He trembles as he sets his briefcase on the table and opens it. Another habit he cannot break—thinking about the past.

_Foolish_, he tells himself angrily. But even that word brings back memories.

Before he can lose himself in his thoughts again, he takes out a stack of papers and begins to look them over, casually making marks with a red pen as he does so. A waitress comes with his bubble tea. He takes it from her, thanks her. The idea of a grown man drinking something from a straw has always embarrassed him, but as he sits here, chewing on the tapioca, he finds himself not really caring. The minutes pass by as he goes through the papers, flicking an elegant X across any wrong answer he sees.

Half-an-hour later, grading quizzes on American bureaucracy is as boring as ever, and to his dismay, he finds his mind drifting. No, focus, look at the paper.

_The Pendleton Act of 1883 was instated because…_

It's no good. The question does absolutely nothing to hold his interest.

He remembers everything.

--o--

"_My head hurts," Wright said, tossing a case file onto the desk. "That witness testimony made no sense. I feel like I'm getting dumber every time I read it."_

_Edgeworth smirked at him. "And we can't afford to let that happen."_

_"Ouch," the other replied, but he was smiling. "Anyway, I'm going to take a nap. I'm exhausted. Don't steal anything." He collapsed onto the couch, eyes closed._

_The prosecutor picked up the file Wright had dropped and looked at it. He was right; in addition to the numerous contradictions, there seemed to be random mentions of various supernatural events—perhaps the witness was high? He placed the report back on the desk before turning to look at the sleeping man. Funny how he could look even more innocent like this, when he was already wore his heart on his sleeve._

_He listened to the sounds of Wright's breathing: slow and even. He had already fallen asleep. On a whim, he decided to approach him, to kneel down by the couch and gently take one of his hands._

_There was so much to say to him, but he could never find the words._

_"Wright," he whispered, so softly it was nothing more than a breath. And then he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead._

_To his surprise, there was something holding him when he was done: Wright was now gripping his hand in return._

_"I'm sorry," Edgeworth blurted out, losing his composure as blue eyes flickered open to meet gray ones. "I—I just—"_

_"Don't be sorry," he replied, and before he knew it, Wright's other hand was on his neck, pulling him closer._

_And when he put it that way, he couldn't be._


	2. Phoenix, Part 1

A/N: This is only going to get longer, guys.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 1

He is a drifter.

But he doesn't know how he became one. All he has are a throbbing head, covered now by a blue beanie and a pair of sunglasses, the clothes he's wearing, and two pieces of paper. One has a single sentence written on it in a handwriting that is not his own. The other is messy, ink-stained, worn. The only thing that has not been crossed out on it is "He's in D.C."

And so this is where he finds himself. He has no idea what he's supposed to do now, though. He parks the car in a place where it's bound to get towed—it's pretty battered and nearly undrivable by now, and since he doesn't have a driver's license on him, he figures that he should probably avoid being seen driving it. In any case, he's in the capital, so maybe his journey is almost ended. Maybe he'll find the man he's looking for. But there is so little to go on.

He takes out the first sheet of paper and looks at it.

_Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death._

There is an eerie familiarity about the statement, but he cannot put his finger on it. Not that he can put his finger on very much at the moment, not even his own name. Ridiculous.

His memory has been coming back, though. Very slowly, just a little bit at a time, and only recent things—what he ate for dinner yesterday, how the car made a strange wheezing noise as he set out the next morning. But it's frustrating like nothing he's experienced before. _Time_, he thinks. _Give it time._

But how long has he been searching? How long does he have left?

He realizes that he has been wandering the city aimlessly as his thoughts clatter around his head and finds himself in front of a small café. Well, he's thirsty, so he might as well go in. He makes his way to the far corner of the room, aware of the attention he's attracting, what with the sunglasses indoors and all, but it doesn't matter to him. All he can really do is find a seat and put his head in his hands, wondering what is wrong with him.

He remembers nothing.

--o--

_The dim lighting of the store was a welcome relief from the glare of the sun, but it was still entirely too bright for him. He looked around, unsure of what he had come in for, then remembered. There had been blood on the back of his head. He had to cover it up before anyone noticed._

_There was a display of beanies near the counter, with most of them featuring touristy slogans such as "Virginia is for lovers"—not quite what he wanted, but he didn't have much of a choice. He chose a blue one, feeling himself drawn to the color, then, as an afterthought, selected a pair of sunglasses as well. Maybe they would help make the brightness more tolerable._

_He paid in cash and slipped on both the beanie and the sunglasses as he stepped outside. The sunlight made him flinch, but at least he wasn't getting dizzy anymore._

_ "Red car," he mumbled to himself as his eyes flicked around the parking lot. There it was. It looked like it had once been very nice and very expensive, maybe the type someone would have driven around in just to show it off, but now the bumper was missing and there were dents and scratches everywhere. God, what had happened?_

_It didn't matter, he supposed. If he was in Virginia, as his beanie seemed to indicate, then he was close._

_He brought out the two sheets of paper in his pocket as he slid into the front seat._

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

He's in D.C.

_He wasn't sure what this meant. Who was in D.C.? Was it Miles Edgeworth? But apparently Miles Edgeworth was dead, whoever he was. What if the two notes weren't even connected?_

_There was nothing he could do, he figured, but to go there and find out for himself. It wasn't as if he could go home, anyway—he didn't remember where home was. He didn't remember who _he_ was._

_He caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror as he pulled out, recoiling a little at how unfamiliar his reflection looked. Blue beanie, sunglasses, stubble on his face. Somehow he had the feeling that he had never quite looked like that before._

_The steering wheel shook slightly as he lifted one hand to touch his cheek. Coupled with the uneasy lurch his stomach had given when he had turned on the engine, he couldn't help but think that something was terribly amiss._

_Well, of course, he told himself. A man with memory problems and driving issues was searching for some other man whose name may or may not be Miles Edgeworth. There were so many things wrong with that picture that he couldn't even begin to explain._

_He closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out, feeling the miles fly away beneath the wheels. If he ever found this other man, he was sure he would have all the answers. Maybe. Maybe._

_The car continued to pelt down I-66, and before long, the highway had disappeared behind him and he was driving down Constitution Avenue. The Washington Monument loomed in the distance._

_Here he was. Somehow, in the capital of the nation, he would find _him_. And then his life would return to normal._

_Maybe. Maybe._


	3. Edgeworth, Part 2

A/N: Oh snap, longest part yet. By the way, yes, I do feel obligated to leave useless author's notes.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 2

He glances up, along with everyone else, when the man with the beanie and the sunglasses walks into the café. He continues to stare when the man slouches down at a table in a corner of the room, looking—sad? Angry? It's hard to tell when the sunglasses are still on him. Strange, wearing those indoors.

The two other people in the café have since lost interest in the newcomer, but he finds himself unable to look away. There is something about the man that holds his gaze. Maybe it's the sunglasses. Maybe it's the beanie. Maybe it's something else. In any case, he finds himself realizing that _I must talk to him_.

His eyes dart back and forth between the man and the quizzes he's grading, trying to seem inconspicuous but probably failing. The man, he notices, is now feeling the fabric of his hat thoughtfully, as if he has just come to some sort of realization about it. Every move he makes is enthralling. He wonders why he can't look away.

And then he knows. It is because this man looks to be as broken as he is, and he finds himself drawn to the pain he is practically radiating. Certainly an excellent reason to be interested in someone.

Nevertheless, it's been a long time since he's talked to another person openly. Three years, in fact. Now is probably a good time to change that.

"I'll take his tab," he says to one of the waitresses, pointing at the man, who looks up, surprised.

He smiles at him.

The man smiles back.

A flurry of raised eyebrows and hand motions passes between the two, and then the man walks meekly over to his table. "Hi," he begins, and for some reason his voice brings a lump to his throat. It just sounds so… _familiar_ somehow. "I couldn't help but notice you offered to pay my bill. Thanks."

"It's no problem," he answers. "You seemed like you—you needed it." He sticks out one hand. "Evan Morgan." The name slides out easily now, but as he's had three years to stop tripping over _Miles Edgeworth_, it's not a surprise.

The other man accepts, but he looks somewhat hesitant. "Beckett," he says finally. Edgeworth's knee jerks a little as he realizes that for some reason, he was expecting the man to answer with _Phoenix Wright_. But that is impossible. Phoenix is in California. Phoenix thinks he is dead. Phoenix hates him.

He realizes that the two of them have been idly shaking hands for several seconds now. "No first name?" he replies at last, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

"Ah—I'm like Cher, I guess. Just the other way around."

And so they begin to talk. Edgeworth tells him about his job as a government teacher at the local high school, his interest in law, the walks he takes around the National Mall when the weather is nice. Beckett is amiable with his replies, but he has little to offer himself—he's not from around here, but he plans to stay for a while; he wears sunglasses indoors because he is sensitive to light. Neither talks about his past. Edgeworth is curious, because he wants to know more about why the man seems as broken as he did while sitting alone at the other table, but he doesn't press. After all, he himself is not willing to divulge his own history.

There is a certain amount of comfort Edgeworth takes from the conversation. It's a slight change from the discussions he would have with Wright—the other man was more talkative, more willing to fill in the silences. It's the other way around now, but he finds that he doesn't mind so much; their conversation flows so easily that it almost seem as though he were talking to an old friend.

_Like Phoenix_, he keeps on thinking, but he cannot allow himself to dwell on that. Besides, Phoenix would have recognized him, fake name or not. This man doesn't.

An hour slides by, then another. He remembers that he needs to plan the syllabus for his next class. "I'll be here at the same time tomorrow," he tells Beckett. "I—I hope you will be as well."

Beckett nods and pulls out a piece of paper that's nearly covered with scribbles of black ink. "I'll see you then," he says. "Thank you again." And he leaves.

Edgeworth feels a pang of guilt as he hears the door shut. This is it, then. He's finally moved on. He's finally maybe found someone to fill in the hole Phoenix left behind.

But does it really count when this other someone is so much like Phoenix himself?

--o--

_He had been living in paradise for six months. Wright was extremely blunt about it after that kiss—"I think we should start dating"—and so they had._

_He had, to his surprise, no regrets, not even when Maya had found out and made a big fuss about it, or when the tabloids had created a minor stir by writing about the "Romeo and Juliet" of lawyers. Just which one of them was Juliet, anyway?_

_But then the letter came._

_There was a return address, but he recognized it as the burned-down electronics store a few blocks away, so he knew it was fake. A hate letter, maybe. He had certainly put enough people away to warrant one._

_If only it were a hate letter._

_One sentence, but it sent shivers down his spine: _You seem to have gotten quite friendly with Phoenix Wright.

_He couldn't explain why it made his fingers tremble or his stomach churn. This was common knowledge, after all. Edgeworth and Wright, gay lawyers extraordinaire. But there was something sinister about it, something dangerous._

_It was still in his hands when Wright opened the door, a bag of something under one arm. "I brought dinner," he announced cheerfully. "I know you were busy today, so I thought I would drop by with something. What are you looking at?"_

_Edgeworth quickly folded the note and tossed it carelessly aside. "Just junk mail. Thank you, Wright."_

_Wright paused, as if sensing that something was wrong—had the Psycholocks appeared?—but he was courteous enough to let it go._

_And as they bantered over the dinner table that night, discussing philosophy and the Steel Samurai and God-knows-what, Edgeworth kept on chanting the same thing in his head, over and over again: it meant nothing. It meant nothing. It meant nothing._

_It meant something._


	4. Phoenix, Part 2

A/N: Wow, thanks for the reviews, guys. :D By the way, I just started GS4 and though I am chronically missing the old characters, I've kind of fallen in love with hobo!Nick, hurr. Might as well say it now, though: nothing spoilery from that game will show up here (especially since I don't know enough to spoil you with anything, lmao). Whoo.

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Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 2

The sudden recollection sends his mind reeling. Will it be like this every time another bit of his past reveals itself to him? It's better, he supposes, to have these flashbulb memories blind him temporarily than to not have them exist at all.

He lifts his head from the table and touches the back of it gingerly with one hand. So he had been bleeding there for some reason. That would explain the hat. The glasses he's not so sure about, but if they're a new purchase, then it would seem as though his light sensitivity is recent. Strange.

Not quite as strange as the man who keeps on glancing at him, though. It's impossible to tell his age—his face looks young, but his hair is silver and there is a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Probably surprised that there's a hobo in his café, he thinks, and is surprised by the bitterness of his thoughts. He ignores him.

That becomes impossible when he hears the other man offer to pay his bill. He stares at him, confused; the feeling is only intensified when he receives a warm smile. But there is something so earnest in the man's face that he cannot help but smile in return. And not just earnestness, either—there seems to be _need_.

He can't imagine why this man would give him a look like that. But there's only one way to find out. "Hi," he says as he approaches his table. "I couldn't help but notice you offered to pay my bill. Thanks."

"It's no problem," the other replies, and his voice is low and compelling. "You seemed like you—you needed it."

Not surprising, since he probably seemed pretty miserable while sitting there with his head in his hands. Oh, and he looks like a hobo, too.

The man is now introducing himself as Evan Morgan, and he realizes with a flutter of panic that he doesn't have a name, but he needs one right now unless he wants the other to get suspicious. _Think_, he tells himself as he accepts Evan's hand. For some reason, the names of playwrights and authors parade through his mind—whoever he is, at least he's well-read. "Beckett," he blurts out at last: one of the most famous writers for the theatre of the absurd. He'll be damned if his life isn't unfolding like some sort of absurdist play right now.

He feels the other man's grip tighten. Is it really that bad of a name choice?

No, Evan is smiling. "No first name?"

He can't be assed to think of one in time; and he is already becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of going by something he thought up in about eight seconds. He knows he has a name. He wants people to call him by it. All he has to do is to remember it first. This temporary one will work; it's just a half-name. Not the real thing. This isn't who he is. It's okay for now. "Ah—I'm like Cher, I guess. Just the other way around."

From there, conversation flows easily. He learns that Evan is a government teacher with an interest in law, and though he doesn't let it show, he realizes upon hearing the other's words that lurking in his brain with the names of authors and playwrights are famous court cases as well. Knowing he has this information for some reason almost makes him laugh.

He wants to tell him a little about himself, but it's hard, considering there's almost nothing to go on, and at this point, he is wary of letting slip his memory problem or his mission here. So he offers what he can. When Evan asks him why he doesn't go to a doctor about his eyesight, he replies that it's just a temporary thing. _Or so I hope._

Something in the back of his mind whispers that he shouldn't dawdle, that he should continue with his search. But it's not like he really can, can he? He's already in D.C., and unless he wants to ask random people if they know a Miles Edgeworth, there is nothing he can do but wait for himself to recover his memories.

Besides, it's good to have a friend in the meantime.

Before he knows it, the sky is dark and Evan is muttering something about planning his next class. They arrange to meet here again tomorrow; he writes it down on his second sheet of paper to make sure he remembers—he is fairly certain now that he can keep any new memories he forms, but it doesn't hurt to be careful. "Thank you again," he tells him, and means it. And then he leaves.

He wanders the streets for a while before stopping in front of a seedy-looking motel and checking himself in for a month. He has no idea how long he's going to stay, but he figures it's probably going to be for a while, especially because he has no car anymore—and of course, the rate is cheaper this way. The wad of cash in his back pocket is still thick, but it needs to last.

The bed is comfortable as he collapses onto it, and he idly wonders if he's spent the past several days sleeping in the car. Absurd, absurd, absurd.

He closes his eyes, pushes thoughts of Evan away, and tries to remember a little more.

--o--

_God, his head hurt. Why was everything so bright?_

_He opened his eyes tentatively, shielding them from the rays of sunlight filtering into the car with one hand, and couldn't believe what he saw._

_There was a tree right in front of him._

_"Shit," he muttered, realizing now what had just happened. He'd driven into a damn tree. His hands flew over his arms and legs, making sure they were okay. At least he was still in one piece._

_Except, perhaps, for his head, which seemed to be throbbing for more reasons than one. The brightness of the light was making him dizzy, and…_

_He looked at his hand, which had been feeling the back of his skull. There was a light coating of blood on his fingertips. Well, that was great. Just great. It didn't seem too bad, though; there hadn't been _that_ much of it._

_He checked himself out in the rearview mirror, squinting in the hopes of keeping the sun out of his eyes. His hair was matted and dark, so the blood wasn't too visible, but he'd have to get a hat or something to cover it up since he didn't want anyone to possibly notice it and ask questions. A quick check of his pockets revealed that there was no ID on him, so he couldn't very well go to a hospital._

_And there was more than ID missing, he realized suddenly._

_He couldn't remember who he was or why he was here._

_Good job, driving into a tree and messing with your head. Idiot._

_He looked at what he _did_ have in his pockets, praying that something in there would give him a clue. There was only one thing, scribbled messily on a sheet of paper, which seemed even remotely helpful: _He's in D.C._ It was underlined and circled multiple times, so it must have been important._

_D.C. it was, then._

_Of course, he needed to make sure the car was still drivable. He stumbled out of it, cursing the sun and his own clumsiness as he did so, and surveyed it from a distance. It certainly looked… worn. There were scratches everywhere, which told him this wasn't the first time he'd run into vehicle-related mishaps, and the bumper was now lying on the ground. He decided he would ditch the car as soon as he reached his destination. He had no idea where he was right now, but maybe if he kept on following the road he'd get onto a main highway and go from there._

_"Okay. Okay," he repeated to himself as he got back in. He had a purpose. He had a means, to a certain extent. First, a store where he could get a hat. Then D.C. Then… que sera sera._

_He drove off into the sunset._


	5. Edgeworth, Part 3

A/N: Oh God, flashback fluff.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 3

They see each other every day over tea and, in Beckett's case, coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. Edgeworth finds himself sneaking glances at him whenever he can. Everything the other man does makes him think of Phoenix somehow. He even takes his coffee the same way.

A coincidence, he knows, but it's the best kind. Or the worst, depending on how you look at it. It's a constant reminder of the man he loves—no, _loved_—he tries to tell himself it's the latter but deep down he knows it's still the former. It's also a voice whispering in his ear: _You can never have the real thing again._

He shoves the voice away every time.

On their sixth meeting, Edgeworth hopes they are comfortable enough with each other so that he can ask his question. Though to be honest, he has several questions for Beckett, but at this point, there is only one he can pose without feeling like he's crossed some boundary.

"So how come you don't have a first name?"

"I do," the other says, a little too quickly; he can imagine the eyes he's never seen widening behind the sunglasses. Edgeworth doesn't quite understand his defensive reaction. "I just…" He pauses, mulls it over. "I don't like it."

"But it's your name. Or do you enjoy introducing yourself as being 'like Cher, just the other way around'?"

Beckett shrugs. "It's not me." He smirks teasingly. "I mean, you don't look much like an Evan."

The words sting more than the other man can possibly know, but he tries to smile. "Funny how that works."

"Anyway," Beckett continues, looking thoughtful now, "I guess you could say I'm… looking for a name. I mean, I know that in the end they're nothing more than arbitrary labels. You could call me 'Bob' and I'd still be the same person. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, et cetera. I just… I don't know. I can't explain."

He doesn't know how to reply, being distracted by the way Beckett has a finger and thumb on his chin. It seems so familiar.

Fortunately, the other man is still talking. "I'm going to find my name, though. And then—and then I'll… remember."

Edgeworth isn't entirely sure what he's talking about anymore, but he smiles, a little sadly, at Beckett. He can never say it out loud, but he already has a name for him.

Phoenix.

--o--

_Of course there would be an earthquake. It had been too long since he had felt the utter terror the jerking of the ground set off in him. The day had been perfect up until now: he had won a case, gone to dinner and a movie with Wright, and found no anonymous letters in the mail. And then it struck._

_He went through the motions automatically: fall over, curl up in a protective ball, inhale, exhale, don't cry. Repeat the last three steps._

_Twenty minutes had passed when he heard pounding at the door. "Miles!" someone shouted from the other side. Wright. But he couldn't bring himself to move. Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry. He was tripping over that last step._

_A crash, and then loud cursing. "Miles!" he heard again, this time accompanied by the sounds of feet running around._

_"Wright," he gasped, but the call was so silent he didn't think anyone had heard._

_Finally the feet got closer as they approached his bedroom. Light from the hallway spilled inside as the door pushed open, and there he was, looking decidedly out of breath. "Oh, God," he said, rushing over to him. "Are you okay?"_

_Edgeworth tried to nod, but he couldn't follow through with the motions, giving a low whimper instead. Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry._

_"You'll be alright," Wright whispered, scooping him up in his arms and carrying him to the bed. He could feel himself being lowered onto the mattress, could feel the warmth of Wright's body as he got in beside him._

_"How…" He had to swallow a few times before he could get the rest of the sentence out. "How did you get here?"_

_"Bike," he replied. "I'm sorry I took so long." He kissed his forehead lightly before cradling him against his body._

_Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry. "It's not your fault."_

_"It's not your fault either."_

_Minutes passed in silence. Edgeworth could feel himself relaxing as Wright stroked his hair; the man was surprisingly gentle. Finally, he brought himself to speak. "Thank you, Phoenix."_

_The hand on his hair paused for a second. "Did… did you just…?"_

_A small laugh bubbled from his throat. "I know, it took me eight months. Not including the time from before we were a couple. I apologize."_

_"God, Miles, don't be sorry," Phoenix said, and kissed him again, this time on the lips. "I thought I was going to be 'Wright' forever. Which would have been okay, coming from you. But… wow." Another kiss. "Here I am, supposed to be comforting you, but you're the one who just made my day. Good job." He flashed him a smile, bright and dazzling._

_Edgeworth buried his face in the other man's shirt. "Phoenix," he mumbled, and he reveled in the way the name rolled off his tongue._

_Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry._

_And say his name._

_The steps suddenly seemed much easier to follow._


	6. Phoenix, Part 3

A/N: Unrelated, but I must say... GS4 is turning out better than expected. Oh snap! But yeah, thanks again for all the comments, you guys. I'll have to return the favor sometime. :)

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Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 3

He begins to adapt to a schedule. Wake up, shower, eat, look up Miles Edgeworth anywhere he can, meet Evan Morgan at the café, return to motel.

_Eating_ is probably something he should be doing more of, he thinks wryly to himself as he stares at his gaunt reflection in the mirror—in the dark, of course, because the light still hurts his eyes. He's been living off coffee and instant noodles. But he doesn't find himself feeling very hungry all that often, so as long as he doesn't collapse one day he's probably okay. Hopefully.

He puts on his beanie and sunglasses and steps outside. Today his feet take him to the library, where he buries himself in old newspapers in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that elusive name. It's exactly the same thing he did yesterday, except instead of obituaries, he's looking at the local news.

Not surprisingly, there is nothing. However, he notes, Evan's name crops up a couple of times—apparently he is quite the teacher. He smiles.

As he peruses a paper from four months back, grinning at yet another mention of Evan, he suddenly remembers their conversation from yesterday. They had been talking about names. And he himself had said that they were nothing more than arbitrary labels.

If _Miles Edgeworth_ is just an arbitrary label…

Then he isn't going to find him in these newspapers. He may be in D.C. But he also may be going by another name. But why?

Inspiration hits him like a ton of bricks: the internet. Maybe something there will give him some sort of lead. In his excitement, he nearly throws the newspapers back onto the shelves before dashing to a computer and frantically typing his name into the search box.

And there it is.

Nearly all of them are three-year old articles on Californian news sites: _Miles Edgeworth missing, presumed dead. Jacket recovered from the San Gabriel River. Suicide note found._

Suicide note found.

With trembling hands he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the first sheet of paper. _Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death._ This must be it—which means he's dead; he threw himself into the river.

No. No. He can't be dead. His jacket may have been pulled from the waters, but there is no mention of his body. Miles Edgeworth is the man in D.C. Why else is he clinging to this three-year-old suicide note otherwise, standing here at the other end of the country?

He struggles to connect the pieces in his head. Miles Edgeworth made it look like he committed suicide and disappeared. For whatever reason, he refused to believe this, enough to track him down—somehow—and leave his present self with a single clue: he's in D.C.

_But it's not enough_, his mind hisses to him despairingly. If he staged his death, he is almost certainly going by another name. And because he cannot remember what the other looks like, he has nothing to go on.

There's only one thing he can do, then. Wait for the memory to come back. It's been three years, after all. He can hold out a little longer, as long as he gets to the truth in the end.

Just a little longer.

--o--

_He stepped out of Page High School, feeling disappointed and elated at the same time. It had been the last school in Greensboro that he hadn't checked out, and of course, nothing had come from it. Edgeworth wasn't here._

_After sliding into the battered red sports car, he brought out the second sheet of paper in his pocket and stared at the last two cities on his list. Greensboro, North Carolina. Washington, D.C. He had canvassed the former and found nothing. Which meant that Edgeworth was in the latter._

I've found you, Miles_, he thought to himself, heart pounding, as he scratched out the two names. With his luck, of course it had to be the last one he visited. But that was just it: D.C. was the last one. There were no more options after it. He had eliminated them all._

_Hand trembling, he put his pen to paper and wrote._

He's in D.C.

_He swallowed heavily as he considered what that meant. He had finally pinned down Edgeworth's location. In weeks—maybe days—he would find the man himself. And then he would learn why Edgeworth did what he did. Why he had staged his death. Why he had betrayed him._

_He underlined and circled the words multiple times, as if doing so would solidify his resolution. The answers were within his grasp._

No time to waste_, his mind sang, and so he pressed down on the pedal and peeled out of the parking lot. He probably shouldn't have been speeding, but his heart was still pounding and he couldn't help but think that the faster he got there, the faster he would find him._

_Faster, faster, faster._

_He never quite saw the tree until he hit it._


	7. Edgeworth, Part 4

A/N: Yikes, shortest part yet.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 4

Sometimes he pretends that behind the sunglasses are blue eyes and wobbly eyebrows.

He knows it's wrong. He knows he shouldn't imagine these things. But he does anyway.

_Let me see your face_, he wants to say every time he sees him. _Let me see it so I can finally stop deluding myself._

But Edgeworth realizes it's Beckett's choice. When he is ready, he will take the sunglasses off. Until then, though, the delusion remains.

He tries to determine what he feels toward Beckett. Friendship, certainly. Maybe a little more than friendship. But for what reason? Because of Beckett himself, or because of the way Beckett reminds him of Phoenix?

He doesn't even have to ask. Of course it's the latter.

And in that case, he feels like this relationship is something he needs to cut off. Beckett deserves better. And though it's been three long years, he cannot help but feel that this would be betraying Phoenix. Phoenix, the reason anything good has ever come from his life. Phoenix, the man who did all he could to save him. Phoenix, the name he has forbidden himself to say aloud ever since he left him three years ago.

_Tell Beckett you can't meet up with him anymore_, his mind keeps on repeating. And when he goes through another café meeting without saying anything of the sort, he reassures himself: _Next time._

But he never goes through with it.

--o--

_There were three words constantly on the tip of his tongue, but he could never bring himself to say them out loud. He was Miles Edgeworth. Affection was not his strong point._

_But after the earthquake, he found the perfect opportunity to at least express it in actions, if not in words._

_"I replaced the door," he told Phoenix over dinner a few days following the incident._

_Phoenix looked embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I just wanted to, um, get to you quickly. I can pay for it if you want."_

_"That's what I wanted to discuss with you, actually."_

_The other man was already fumbling with his wallet. "How much? I only have a few twenties on me, but if we can go to the bank later, or maybe a check—"_

_Edgeworth shook his head. "Not that part, Phoenix." He took in the way the other's eyes lit up at the mention of his name and allowed a small smile to play across his face. God, he loved that look. "I meant what you said about you getting to me quickly. Because, you see, kicking my door down during an earthquake isn't the fastest way. This is." He slid a pair of keys across the table._

_Phoenix looked at the keys, then at Edgeworth. "Miles," he said. "T-thank you."_

_And so he began the process of moving all of his belongings over. One of the boxes he brought to the house, Edgeworth discovered, was filled with loose sheets of paper and pencils. "Just old art junk," Phoenix had answered dismissively when he asked him about it. "I still doodle every now and then."_

_Edgeworth started to flip through them before suddenly pausing. "Is this me?"_

_"Oops, busted." The other smiled weakly. "Couldn't help myself, I guess. Sometimes, when you're in your office and you're really busy with paperwork and I'm just lying there on the couch…"_

_He stared at it, amazed at the way Phoenix had captured his likeness and touched by the effort he had obviously put into it. "May I keep this?"_

_"What? Oh. Y-yeah. Sure."_

_They grinned at each other._

_By the end of two weeks, Phoenix had moved in completely. All was well._

_Then the second letter came._

So you are living with Phoenix Wright.

_And as Edgeworth read it with shaking hands, he felt himself falling back into the litany he had recited back when the first letter had come, over two months ago. This means nothing. Someone is playing mind games with me. Nothing will come from it. Nothing, nothing, nothing._

_But he would inevitably return to _this means something_._

_The third letter would cement it._


	8. Phoenix, Part 4

A/N: Man, what's up with the documents thing repeating the first line of your file? Does anyone even know what I'm talking about? Lolz.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 4

Sometimes he pretends that his life isn't clobbered together from disjointed bits of memory, that all he has now is all he will ever need. He wishes that he could do something—anything—without Miles Edgeworth looming in the back of his brain.

But he can't. And so even as he feels himself being pulled in by Evan's depthless gray eyes, there is always a voice telling him that he cannot be distracted until he has found the truth.

God, Evan Morgan. There's just _something_ about him that he finds himself incredibly attracted to—his looks, his intellect, his wit. Okay, several somethings. The man was reserved in the beginning, when they had first met, but now, a few weeks in, Evan has proven himself to have quite the sarcastic streak of humor. And he loves it.

Loves it, but also hates it, because he can't help but wonder what this will mean for him when he finally meets Edgeworth. What is his relationship with him? From what he knows, Miles is apparently extremely important to him—enough so that he will travel the country to find him, even if he doesn't want to be found.

It wouldn't be a surprise, he reflects with some amusement as he considers the fact that he seems to be attracted to men, if he had maybe loved Edgeworth once. And maybe still does.

And so they both vie for his attention: Miles Edgeworth, the man cloaked in shadows and the key, perhaps, to his past; and Evan Morgan, the man right here before him and quite possibly the key to his future.

If he wants, he knows he can quit the search for the former and focus only on the latter. It would be so easy. Edgeworth faked his death, after all, which means he's trying to escape something. Maybe him. If he gives up, Miles can continue on with his life, doing whatever he's doing. And he can get to know Evan a little better without feeling so guilty.

But something tells him he shouldn't. There are so many questions he has, and he wants to see them answered. When they meet again, he says to himself, he'll determine how he feels. Except he doesn't know how long it will be until that moment comes, and all the while, Evan is still here.

_Get your mind off him_, a voice whispers in his ear. _Just stop coming to the café._

But he returns every day.

--o--

_He was sitting in a coffee shop in Seattle when he saw the picture of the smiling woman. _Local history teacher wins teaching award_, read the caption—not that he particularly cared about that. There was something far more interesting in the photo: the background. It was blurry and out of focus, but he could make out the back of a man who was holding up one finger near his ear._

_He would recognize that arrogant pose anywhere._

_"Edgeworth," he gasped out loud in shock. He stared at the picture again. It was Miles, he was sure of it, even without the magenta suit—not that it would have shown up anyway in a black-and-white photo. After nearly two years of searching, he had finally found some sort of confirmation that the other was alive._

_Alive, he thought, and breathed in the word like air. Edgeworth was alive._

_His eyes flew to the article, which he had previously skipped over, and went through it multiple times. It wasn't long, but it told him enough. _Semifinalists include teachers from Pine City, MI, Richfield, UT, Portland, OR, Greensboro, NC, Corpus Christi, TX, Aurora, IL, Washington, D.C., Akron, OH, and Knoxville, TN._ Nine cities. If Edgeworth was at this ceremony, whatever it was, then he must have been a nominated teacher. And so he must be living in one of these cities._

_He took out a sheet of paper from his pocket, which was scribbled over with false leads and fleeting hopes. At last, something concrete. Eyebrows creasing in concentration, he scratched out everything and wrote down the names of the nine cities, going from west to east to the best of his abilities. It was wild, it was inefficient, but he had already laid out his plan. He'd go to each city, each school. And he would search the classrooms, the yearbooks, everything. And eventually…_

_Eventually he would find Edgeworth._

_His breath caught as he wondered what would happen. What would he say? What would he do?_

_Slap him, of course. Except even as he thought it he knew he would never do such a thing. Because even though Miles had left him, had betrayed him, he still loved the man. There had to be a reason behind his actions. And he would find them out._

_"Miles," he whispered, tracing a finger over the blurry figure. For some reason he could feel his eyes burning. God, was he about to start sobbing? Maybe it was understandable. He had been right all along. Edgeworth hadn't killed himself._

_He took a few deep breaths to calm the emotions coursing through him. Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry. Miles' mantra during an earthquake, he had told him once._

_Thirty minutes and a cup of coffee later, he was calm enough to pay his tab and get into the car without his eyes watering. One more night in the motel, he decided._

_And then he would go to Portland. Then Richfield. Then Corpus Christi. And so on and so forth._

_Until he finally, finally found him._


	9. Edgeworth, Part 5

A/N: Aw, you guys really know how to make someone smile. :') Again, will totally need to repay the favor someday... but I'm just really into writing at the moment. XD

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 5

"Can I come to your school?" Beckett asks one day.

Edgeworth frowns a little, confused. "Why would you want to do that? My next few lectures are about the judicial branch. I assume you don't have much of an interest in the subject."

"Oh, er, not for you," the other replies, a little awkwardly. "I… just wanted to look at the yearbooks."

He raises an eyebrow. "The yearbooks?"

Beckett shrugs, looking slightly sheepish. "I came here looking for something. I think the yearbooks might help in finding it."

"Are you searching for a person?" He leans in closer, genuinely interested. This is the first time Beckett has mentioned his reason for coming to D.C. "If you tell me his name, I can look him up for you."

"I…" He shakes his head. "I don't have a name."

"Ah." Edgeworth sits back again. "Well… if this is important to you, then certainly. Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven. I'll drive you there." He can't understand why looking in old yearbooks will help, but maybe if he indulges Beckett he'll learn a little more.

And so the next day finds the two of them standing in front of the café at the planned time. Though the sky is still dark, he notices that the other man is wearing the sunglasses anyway. "There's barely any light," he points out, hoping that maybe he'll take them off.

"Headlights can be bright," Beckett replies cheerfully.

Edgeworth sighs inwardly, but says nothing. They get into his car, with him warning the other very clearly to not touch anything, and drive to the high school, where he obtains a visitor's pass for Beckett.

"Try not to look too suspicious," he tells the other man as he leads him to the library, motioning toward the sunglasses. Beckett grins in return. After promising he'll pick him up at the end of the day, Edgeworth leaves him to his own devices and heads for his first class.

On the way there he begins to realize that maybe he doesn't want Beckett to find this other man after all, because he's selfish and doesn't want to share. But he's also aware that anything more than friendship with this man shouldn't—couldn't—happen. Not only because of the guilt, but because he's terrified that even in his new life, someone will come and try to destroy him.

Just like with Phoenix.

--o--

"_Yours, yours, mine, yours," Phoenix mumbled as he tossed Edgeworth his mail. "Why do you get so many more letters than me?"_

_"I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I'm paying the bills."_

_"Oh. Right." He gave him a sheepish grin._

_Edgeworth looked down at the small pile in front of him. An envelope attached to a box covered in hearts—that would be from Oldbag, of course; electricity bills; something with a return address but no name—_

_No. It couldn't be. A third letter._

_"I'm going to the study," he announced, scooping up the mail and walking out as quickly as he could, barely aware of Phoenix's absent nodding. When he got there, he threw the other envelopes onto the table and tore open the one from the mysterious sender._

_Oh, God._

I think it would be very unfortunate if something were to happen to Phoenix Wright in your own home.

_He read through it again and again, trying not to believe it. And as he stared at it, he realized there was something there that hadn't been present in the first two letters: the "I". It was very ornate, very distinct. And he knew exactly who it belonged to._

_It was so obvious, now that he thought about it. Von Karma had killed his father over a penalty. Of course he would do the same, if not worse, to Phoenix—and if he toyed with Edgeworth in the meanwhile, that just made it better._

_"Papa," he murmured, and regretted it instantly. This wasn't the time to be calling him that. Christ, what had he been thinking? That just because von Karma had raised him, he'd ignore the fact that Edgeworth was now living with the man who had put him in jail?_

Think about what he will do_, he told himself. Von Karma clearly still had connections to the outside world, even if he was locked up. And he would use them to accomplish… what?_

_To cause pain to Edgeworth. The man was a perfectionist, after all, and he wouldn't care for a son who had thrown away that perfection._

_And he would also render Phoenix incapable of being a defense lawyer any longer. It wasn't necessarily his death he was after. He would want to see the man utterly broken and purposeless._

_Though killing him wasn't out of the question. Von Karma would do that, he realized, if he knew Edgeworth would be there to see it happen._

Run away with me_, he wanted to tell Phoenix. But he couldn't ask him to leave everything behind: his home, his job, his friends. And it would be too conspicuous, anyway—two attorneys suddenly disappearing into thin air. It would just make Manfred even more determined._

_He could go to the police. He had his own connections, after all. But even though he had grown rather fond of Gumshoe, he knew their competency left a lot to be desired: they'd be brushed away like leaves. No good._

_And so he made his choice. If he faked his death, Phoenix would be crushed: certainly that would satisfy von Karma, as much as he hated to think it. But the important part was that his life would no longer be in danger. He would only kill if Edgeworth were alive to see it, just as he had killed his father and allowed him to think that he was the murderer for fifteen years._

_It would be leaving Phoenix that would be difficult. But if he stayed with him, the other man would certainly die. And it would be on his hands._

_He refolded the letter, then pulled open a drawer and took out a small picture frame, sticking the piece of paper into the back along with the other two. As he made to tuck it into his desk again, he looked at what was framed: it was the sketch of himself that Phoenix had drawn._

_He ran one finger over the glass slowly before putting it away, wishing as he did so that he could just hide his emotions in a drawer as well: how much easier life had been, when nothing mattered but getting that guilty verdict._

_Easier, but also so much emptier._

_Sighing, he returned to the kitchen, where Phoenix was going through a box of candies as if he hadn't eaten in days. How would he live without him, this man who could have chocolate smeared all over his face and fingers but still somehow be so perfect?_

_"Seriously, Oldbag's nuts, but you really need to try these," Phoenix said, turning to face Edgeworth. "What—what are you looking at?"_

_"You," he responded honestly, surprised at the calm in his voice despite the decision he had just made._

_The other man cocked one eyebrow. "I bet you're actually dying to have a chocolate except you're too stubborn to accept anything from her. But if you're not going to confess, I'm eating the rest." And he stuck another piece into his mouth._

_Edgeworth knew the answer. He _wouldn't_ be able to live without him. He'd walk around with a hole in his heart for the rest of his life._

_"Miles?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"You all right?"_

_He didn't know exactly how to answer. "I… just want to be able to watch you forever," he said finally._

_"Creepy," Phoenix replied, but he was smiling. "I love you too."_

The things I'm about to do to you_, he thought, and in that moment, his heart broke._


	10. Phoenix, Part 5

A/N: Hi this is here to take up space.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 5

He doesn't quite divulge everything in his explanation to Evan. Yes, he has gone through yearbooks in the past, but that was because he knew what he was searching for. He doesn't know anymore, though, so looking at them is essentially a useless task. But he hasn't let slip his memory issues yet, and he doesn't plan on doing so anytime soon.

He does, of course, have a reason for wanting to go to his school. Officially, it's to jog his memory—if he's been spending a lot of time school-hopping, maybe the familiar setting will make some synapses connect.

Unofficially, it's to learn more about Evan.

He succeeds in this venture. The high school he teaches at is called Benjamin Banneker. The vehicle he drives is a blue sports car—the same make, he notes with curiosity, as the red one he had before he dumped it on the streets. The attitude he has while driving is one of a man who probably doesn't usually let people who look like hobos sit in his car.

He smiles a little to himself as he considers what it means for Evan to have let him sit here after all.

And then, of course, he remembers Miles Edgeworth, and the smile is replaced with pursed lips.

After being left in the library, he makes his way to the yearbooks and idly flips through them for the hell of it, wondering if maybe a face will magically jump out at him. No such thing happens.

Meanwhile, though, he discovers that Evan has been teaching here for almost three years. He's also incredibly popular—"_Mr. Morgan's a hard grader, but he comes up with the most creative ways to make sure we learn the concepts and he's just so snarky_," one girl gushes in a caption. The most recent yearbook mentions a couple of students submitting his name to some sort of national teaching award. He wonders if anything ever came of that.

Almost immediately after, he gets the feeling that he's missing something.

But he can't focus on it because it just has to be _right now_ that he remembers a little more about his past.

--o--

_Awareness returned suddenly._

_One second he was mechanically pouring a cup of coffee for himself, uncaring and emotionless. The next, his head was spinning as one thought made itself very clear in his mind._

Edgeworth isn't dead and so you have to find him.

_He spilled the coffee everywhere in shock. It had, he felt, been a very long time since he had really _thought_ anything. Since he had had a purpose._

_How long had the back of his mind been working before presenting him with this idea? Why had it taken all this time? As the reasons for this epiphany presented themselves to him, he couldn't help but feel that this was so _obvious_. Of course Miles wasn't dead. Of course he had to find him._

_Because after his disappearance following the resolution of DL-6, he would never have considered suicide again._

_Because even though they had retrieved his magenta jacket from the river, they never found his body._

_And because he himself knew that he would never rest until he found out the truth behind everything._

_That was it, then. He was going to have to do this._

_He looked around, taking in his surroundings properly for what seemed like the first time in ages. Where was he?_

_Right. Edgeworth's house. _His_ house._

_There was a huge pile of mail on the table, but it appeared as though aside from the bills, he had opened none of them. Another large stack of assorted items—consolation gifts, he guessed—also remained untouched. His answering machine, which was flashing insistently, told him that there were over a hundred new messages. Christ._

_He tried to remember what had happened in the last few days?—weeks?—months? It wasn't hard, because he hadn't done anything. He had been awake, but not _conscious_._

_The law office was closed. Maya was gone. His life was a shambles._

Search him out.

_He found himself being almost magnetically drawn to the keys to Miles' red sports car lying on the kitchen counter, untouched since Edgeworth had left. He didn't have a license, but he knew how to drive, if not well. He could use these. He could take the car and roam the country._

_His hand closed over them._

_It was the plan of a foolish fool who was so foolish he couldn't let go of a foolish past, he thought with a tight smile, but it was better than continuing with this broken life._

_His decision was made._

_First he went to the bank—managing to somehow drive into the sidewalk on his way there—and withdrew as much money as he could, then tossed all his identification into the trash as he left. He didn't want to be himself anymore. It hurt too much._

_And so he drove off with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a wad of cash. Later, in the next city, he would discover Miles' suicide note neatly folded in one pocket. Apparently he had kept it close to him at all times. It seemed fitting, somehow, that he would bring it with him. This way, he'd never forget what he was out here for._

_Sometime after that he would begin a list with leads he gleaned from reading the newspapers and watching TV. None of them ever panned out._

_Until, over a year and a half later, he learned that a woman in Seattle had won a teaching award._


	11. Edgeworth, Part 6

A/N: ...I assume here that gay marriage hasn't made a lot of advances since now, heh.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 6

Beckett seems thoughtful, if a bit out of sorts, when they return to the café. This combination, Edgeworth learns, makes him rather talkative.

"I guess I wasn't really expecting to find anything," he mumbles, sipping at his coffee. "He—he made himself difficult to locate. I was hoping to get lucky."

"By looking through the yearbooks at my school?"

Beckett shakes his head, refusing to give an answer. All right, maybe not that talkative.

Edgeworth tries a different tack, knowing that if he's going to discover anything about the man, it's now. "Why are you looking for him?" he prods.

The other idly stirs his drink. "He was… my life," he replies carefully. "And then he left. I-I became completely lost. I guess I still am."

With those words, he suddenly feels more connected to Beckett now than he ever has, finding himself torn between comforting him and thinking about his own relationship with Phoenix. He settles for awkwardly placing one hand on the table. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Beckett doesn't respond, but his gaze lands on one of his fingers. "Nice ring," he says unexpectedly. "Story behind it?"

Edgeworth realizes that he's trying to change the topic. But, he supposes, it's only fair that he share something about himself now.

He looks down at the band of silver. "Yes," he sighs. "There was someone in my life as well. He gave this to me. When we… separated, it was… well, I assume you can imagine."

Beckett's hand jerks almost imperceptibly, as though it's motioning to take Edgeworth's own, but in the end, it remains curled around his mug. "_Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows_," he says instead.

"Hmm?"

"Sorry. It's from _The Tempest_. Th-the quote just seemed appropriate for the two of us."

Edgeworth smiles thinly. "You and I? Strange bedfellows, indeed."

An awkward silence follows as he—and Beckett, he's sure—consider the quote literally. It isn't as though it's never crossed his mind. But the loyalty he feels to a man he hasn't seen in three years keeps on stopping him from turning thoughts into actions.

As well it should. He turns his eyes back to the ring to remind himself just how much that man means to him, remembering when Phoenix had proposed, so close to the end.

He has never quite decided if it was the happiest or the saddest moment of his life.

--o--

_Phoenix froze like a deer caught in headlights when Edgeworth opened the door to find him taking a baking pan out of the oven. "Y-you're home early," he gasped._

_"Yes, it would appear that way," he replied wryly. "I can leave if you'd like."_

_"No, no, don't do that! I'm, um, almost done. Hold on, this is hot." He set the pan onto the stove and took off the oven mitts. "Everything was supposed to be laid out on the table by the time you got back," he explained with a small smile. "It's not exactly often that you break away from your schedule."_

_And it wasn't often that Phoenix went domestic. "Is there something you want to tell me?"_

_"Oh, nothing," he said, grinning happily, and while he could bluff convincingly at any other time, he seemed too excited now for Edgeworth to believe him. "Give me five more minutes to set up, then we can eat."_

_He came through with his promise. Edgeworth actually found himself genuinely impressed by the aesthetic way he laid out everything on the table, but the man was an artist, after all._

_Phoenix appeared by his side and gave an exaggerated bow. "Please, sit down," he said, flashing him a smile before sliding into the seat across from him. "Okay, so I lied. I actually do have something to tell you." His face was suddenly serious. "I-I realized today that I'm good at criminal law." He paused and looked at him expectantly._

_Edgeworth nearly choked on the wine he was sipping. "That's what you wanted to say to me?"_

_"Hold it," Phoenix interrupted, and he was smirking now. "I know criminal law, but not, for example, social law. So certain things become a little difficult when you're kind of clueless about it. Take us, for example. Let's say I wanted to marry you. But can I? What does the law say about two men and a legally binding agreement? I didn't know."_

_He stared at Phoenix, not trusting himself to answer. Was he… was he really…?_

_"So I did some research. According to the law, we're not allowed to marry per se. Whatever we do won't be recognized by the federal government. But then I thought, I don't really give a damn about the federal government. There's only one definition of marriage I care about. And that is to vow to spend the rest of my life with you."_

_He came to Edgeworth's side of the table and got down on one knee as he pulled something from his pocket. "So, Miles," he said. "You—you're kind of the world to me. Ever since that day you stood up for me in fourth grade. I mean, you're pretty much the reason I turned out the way I did. And I don't regret it…"_

_As Phoenix continued, Edgeworth found himself being pelted with conflicting emotions. He knew what was coming, and yet he didn't know how to answer. Half of him was screaming accept, accept, but the other half was telling him that no, he couldn't agree; it would make the blow to Phoenix all the more painful when he finally left. This was what he had always wanted, but… Christ, what was he supposed to say?_

_"…So will you do this, Miles? Will you spend the rest of your life with me?"_

Yes_, said his heart._

No_, said his brain._

_He looked into Phoenix's eyes, wide and blue, then down at the box he was holding, which had a silver ring nested inside. He couldn't. He couldn't._

_ "Yes," he breathed._

_Oh, God, he was so selfish._

_"R-really?" Phoenix was suddenly all over him, slipping the ring onto his finger while trying to kiss him sloppily at the same time. And as he closed his eyes and took it all in, listening to him laughing in between whispers of "I love you, Miles," he could almost forget the deceit he was planning._

_Almost, almost forget._


	12. Phoenix, Part 6

A/N: Oh, Feenie.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 6

There is definitely something palpable between them.

When Evan tells him that he, too, has lost someone he cared about, he can feel his heart reaching out to him. He wants to take his hand—which is just lying there—and tell him something funny but serious at the same time, like _so I guess we're in this together_. And then he wants to hold him and comfort him and say something along the lines of how it'll be okay because well, they have each other now, kind of, and they don't need the other people anymore.

He is a little shocked at his thoughts.

Even so, though, he keeps his hands firmly wrapped around his cup of coffee, because while he doesn't know about Evan, he thinks that he still might need Miles Edgeworth after all, if only to find out the truth. And so he ends up quoting _The Tempest_ instead, which ends up makes things strange and awkward because he just has to use the word _bedfellows_.

After a few seconds of silence, he clears his throat, making Evan's eyes snap up and look into his own.

Yes, he needs Miles. But it's becoming increasingly clear that he needs Evan as well, and he is no longer certain that he stop himself from acting on it. And just because he has stalled in his search doesn't mean he shouldn't get on with the rest of his life.

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"So I haven't seen much of the city yet. Do—do you want to maybe show me around the National Mall sometime?"

For a second, he's sure the other man is going to say no. A multitude of expressions he can't make out flash across his face. But then—

"I'd like that," Evan replies quietly.

He finds himself completely taken aback. "R-really?" he squawks in return.

A smirk appears on the other's face, and he finds himself relieved that they seem to have passed the previous awkward moment. "No, I was lying. Honestly, Beckett. You remind me so much of… someone I knew." Evan takes a breath as if to say more, but he stops himself.

He gives him a small smile, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Evan murmurs, and there is something wistful in his voice.

The wistfulness reminds him of his own situation, and he can't help but wonder if Edgeworth, wherever in the city he may be, is fine right now.

--o--

_He was curled up in bed, clutching the note to himself, when his phone rang. _Edgeworth_, he thought desperately, and made a wild fumble for his cell. But the caller ID said otherwise._

_"Hello?" he rasped, choking over the word._

_"Hey, pal, it's Gumshoe. Listen, do—do you know where Mr. Edgeworth is?"_

_A shudder went through him. "Why are you asking me this?" he whispered, surprised at the fury behind his voice._

_"Whoa, there! Look, I just wanted to know because—because we found something. You might… want to come over."_

_And so as much as he didn't want to go anywhere or see anyone at the moment, he found himself at the precinct thirty minutes later, facing an extremely worried detective who showed him a very wet and very magenta jacket. Edgeworth's._

_"Someone found this floating down the San Gabriel River today," Gumshoe told him. "It's pretty obvious who this belongs to. And… we have a taxi driver who says he drove him there at midnight." He scratched his head. "So… we're not quite sure what to make of this."_

_At the end of their confrontation, Edgeworth had left in a taxi…_

_He reached into his pocket and produced the note, trying to fit the pieces together in his head. "A-all I have is this."_

_They looked at each other and came to the same realization at the same time._

_"He meant it metaphorically," he nearly shouted, as if that would somehow make it better. "Like last time. He—he didn't actually…"_

_"I'm sorry, pal," Gumshoe said, looking shaken. "But it looks like he's… killed himself."_

_Something inside him snapped._

_He rode back home in a daze and spent the next few hours staring blankly at the wall. Miles. Suicide. It couldn't be._

_But they had found his jacket. And he had written that note._

_Why had he bothered saying all those things to him, then? Why had he insisted on breaking his heart so thoroughly before jumping into the river?_

_He'd never know, because Edgeworth was dead._

_And as the weeks passed and nothing to the contrary was found, he found himself slipping into a state of apathy. Maya, Pearls, Gumshoe, others—they all tried to offer him consolation. Sometimes they came to his house, knocking for minutes—even hours—before they gave up, defeated. Sometimes they sent him comfort foods and gift baskets. Sometimes they left him voice messages telling him that they missed Edgeworth too, but together they'd get through this. He ignored every single one of them._

_He closed up the law offices almost immediately. Miles had given him a reason to be a lawyer. He had also taken it away. Mia would have been so disappointed—but she was dead, too, so why should he give a damn?_

_He never let go of the note. Horrible though it was, the piece of paper was the only thing Edgeworth had left him. It was under his pillow when he slept and in one pocket when he was awake. The message was burned into his memory._

_His life quickly became nothing but habit as he did nothing but the bare minimum to keep himself alive. He woke up, showered, shaved, ate, paid the bills if necessary, and stared at the walls before going to sleep and repeating the process the next day. It didn't matter what became of him. He was nothing without Edgeworth. He didn't want to _be_ anything without Edgeworth._

_After a while, the knocking stopped. The phone calls came less frequently. Maya, he knew, was training to become Master of Kurain. And the others had moved on, leaving him behind with his memories and his misery. He did nothing to change this._

_Almost an entire year would pass before he finally cared again._


	13. Edgeworth, Part 7

A/N: Y-you guys are really amazing. Thank you.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 7

It is a bright and sunny Sunday morning when they meet in front of the café, Beckett in his usual sweatshirt and slacks, complete with dark sunglasses and blue beanie, Edgeworth in a white button-down and jeans. The two of them get into his car and drive to the mall in near silence.

"So, where to first?" Beckett asks as Edgeworth sticks a few coins into the parking meter.

He has it all planned out, of course. How many times has he imagined showing Phoenix around? How many times has he stared absently at maps of the city, running a finger over the various landmarks, thinking to himself _I wonder if he'd like to see this_ before remembering that it will never happen?

Of course, this is Beckett he's taking around the city, not Phoenix. But he can pretend.

"Just follow me," he says.

They walk to the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden—Phoenix, after all, had previously been an art major, and had an eye for these things. As they meander along the pathway, Edgeworth finds, to his surprise and pleasure, that Beckett seems genuinely interested in the pieces, pausing frequently to consider each one. It makes him smile.

From there they visit the National Gallery of Art proper, slowly making their way through all the galleries. "How'd you know I would like this?" Beckett asks while contemplating a da Vinci painting.

Edgeworth shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. He _hadn't_ known what kind of displays he would like. All he knows are the sorts of things Phoenix would have been into.

They continue hopping from place to place as the day wears on, going from the gallery to the Capitol to the Hirshhorn to the Freer Gallery to the Washington Monument before finally stopping at the Reflecting Pool. Along the way, he can't help but notice that Beckett's eyes keep on straying toward him—or maybe it's his eyes straying toward Beckett; he cannot quite tell. But their conversation remains light and casual, and so he says nothing on the subject.

And then, as they stand on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and stare out at the pool, it suddenly starts to rain. "All right, back to the car," Edgeworth grouses immediately, cursing himself for not checking the weather reports beforehand.

Beckett reaches out and grabs his arm. The shock he feels at the physical contact seems to be mirrored on the other's face, but then the expression is gone and a grin appears instead. "Evan," he says easily. "Even if we run back, we're going to get soaked. So we might as well stay for a little while and enjoy it."

He arches one eyebrow. "Enjoy what? Catching pneumonia?"

"The Reflecting Pool. Look at the way the rain hits it. It's—it's kind of nice, isn't it?"

Edgeworth is about to open his mouth to argue the contrary, but then he glances at it and finds himself agreeing. It _is_ a reflecting pool, after all, and designed to inspire tranquility. And combined with Beckett's steadfast presence and the rain pattering rhythmically around him, he gradually finds himself feeling more at ease than he ever has in the past three years.

He feels so alone. But he doesn't have to.

"Yes," he murmurs. "It's nice."

And ever so slowly, he reaches out one hand to take Beckett's own.

--o--

"_Amazing as usual, Miles," Phoenix said, beaming at him from across the table before cutting into the chicken. "And you wonder why _I_ don't cook more often."_

_Edgeworth smiled in return, but he couldn't quite bring himself to meet the other's eyes: he had mixed crushed sleeping pills into his dinner._

_They worked quickly—halfway through the meal, Phoenix was yawning and apologetic, blaming the tediousness of today's trial for his exhaustion. As he excused himself from the table, he promised him that he'd microwave and eat the rest tomorrow, because letting anything made by Miles Edgeworth go to waste would be akin to slapping mankind in the face._

_It was okay, he understood, Edgeworth told him, waving one hand dismissively. He should sleep. He deserved to rest._

_And so Phoenix stumbled off. Edgeworth listened to the sounds of the sink running as the other brushed his teeth, listened to the loud, appreciative sigh he made as he fell into bed. And then silence._

_Mechanically, he stood up and dumped the entire dinner into the trash, then washed all the dishes by hand before checking the clock. It was nearly ten; they had eaten late. The taxi would come at midnight._

_There was one more task he needed to do._

_His writing was slow and deliberate. The last thing he needed right now was a shaky pen; if he wavered, someone might think he had been forced to write the note. Then it wouldn't be ruled as a suicide, and some poor person—God forbid, Phoenix—might become a suspect. He couldn't let that happen._

_As his hand moved over the paper, he found himself taking a sick sort of reassurance from the words, remembering the first time he had written them. They were almost familiar, like old friends he hadn't seen in a while._

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

_It was almost the truth. When he resurfaced, he would no longer be a prosecutor. He would no longer be Miles Edgeworth. And without Phoenix… that was no life. The only lie in there, he thought cynically, was the matter of whether or not he had chosen it._

_He folded the note into thirds, then walked into the bedroom, where Phoenix was snoring lightly. While still fully clothed, he slipped in next to him, his hair fluttering as the other's breath tickled gently at his face._

_He would never feel that warmth against his cheek again. He would never hear the other's heartbeat as they lay pressed up against each other, their bodies fitting together like some sort of jigsaw puzzle. He would never smell the scent of his hair, freshly washed and ungelled, falling across his forehead. He would never see him blinking groggily up at him as his alarm rang at six in the morning; he was so good, to have put up with that for all these months. And he would never taste him as their lips locked briefly, with Phoenix mumbling "Have a good day at work, Miles," into his ear before drifting back off to sleep._

_Never again._

_For the next hour, they were like one: breathing in sync, deep and even, as their arms lay tangled around each other. But at 11:30, it was time to leave, and so Edgeworth reluctantly extracted himself from Phoenix's embrace and got out of bed._

_God, this was going to be so hard._

_He looked down at the sleeping man, suddenly reminded of that day nearly two years ago, when he had unintentionally let the other know about his feelings._

_No matter what, he thought, it would always be the best decision of his life._

_He took one of his hands and placed his lips lightly on his forehead. "Goodbye, Phoenix," he whispered._

_So this was it, then. The end of everything he knew._

_In one fluid motion, he tucked the suicide note under his pillow, then retrieved his duffel from under the bed and walked out onto the porch. There wasn't much he was bringing with him: a few changes of clothes, Phoenix's drawing, the three von Karma letters, fake ID, the ring on his finger. He knew he shouldn't have packed most of these things. The sentimentality would drive him insane. But he couldn't stop himself._

_A quick glance at his watch told him it was 11:42. The taxi wasn't due for another twenty minutes, but it never hurt to be early. Just as long as Phoenix didn't—_

_He heard the door open from behind him._


	14. Phoenix, Part 7

A/N: I am very sleepy but I keep on waking up at 9:30 in the morning even when I don't want to. Gah.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 7

He remembers, now, what it feels like to be dead inside, to stand still as the world keeps on moving. He remembers the pain Edgeworth's disappearance caused him, even if he can barely remember Edgeworth himself. He remembers not caring about anything at all.

He remembers, and he knows he never wants to be that way again—and so he is determined, this time, to move with the world.

And it seems to be moving him toward Evan.

The way they interact with each other, through the snark and the sidelong glances and the smiles—it all seems so _familiar_. So… _right_.

He wonders if whatever he had with Miles was anything like this.

On Sunday morning, he wakes up feeling like maybe something's going to happen today. Sightseeing with Evan, certainly. But more than that, though he's not quite sure what it is yet. Something big. Something important.

The feeling persists as he puts on his beanie and sunglasses. The beanie, of course, is hardly needed anymore, since his head wound has long since healed, but he's gotten rather attached to the thing. At the very least, it keeps his hair out of his face. The sunglasses, however, remain a necessity.

Evan picks him up at the café right on time and drives him to the National Mall, somehow finding a parking space among the mess of cars and pigeons. "So, where to first?" he asks, but the other just smiles and tells him to follow along.

They end up visiting mostly art museums, which, to his surprise, he realizes he has no problem with. It's almost as if Evan knows something about him that he doesn't know himself—him? Into art? _Really?_ He never would have thought.

As they walk, he finds himself sneaking glances at the other man every now and then, taking in the way the light glances off the other's silver hair and glasses. And maybe he's going insane, but it seems like Evan's sometimes glancing back. He wonders if he should say something about it—"Hey, is it just me, or are we kind of looking at each other a lot?"—but he has a feeling Evan wouldn't take it very well, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

Eventually, they end up at the Reflecting Pool, where they stare out into the distance in silence as the sun sets. Right when he's thinking about asking whether or not this is more than just a friendly outing, it—cliché of clichés—begins to rain. "All right, back to the car," Evan gripes, motioning to leave.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and grabs the other's arm. Evan tenses instantly and stares at him in shock.

Oops. But he can't let this chance go, and so he allows a smile to slide onto his face. "Evan," he says, "even if we run back, we're going to get soaked. So we might as well stay for a little while and enjoy it." Not that he can imagine him running.

"Enjoy what? Catching pneumonia?"

_Yeah_, he's about to retort, but then his eyes dart toward the pool, toward the thousands of droplets falling on it all at once, and he has his answer. "The Reflecting Pool. Look at the way the rain hits it. It's—it's kind of nice, isn't it?"

He lets go of his arm as Evan turns to stare out at it. For a long while, the two of them stand in silence as the rain pours down on them, but he doesn't really mind.

"Yes," he hears at last. "It's nice."

To his surprise, one of the other's hands tentatively wraps around his own and squeezes gently.

And though both of them are clammy and wet, and the water between their hands makes a strange squelching sound, and Miles Edgeworth is still a complete mystery to him—he can't help but think that nothing in the short span of memory he possesses has ever felt better.

--o--

_Though the sun was beginning to rise and the birds had started to sing their song, he couldn't help but think that he had never felt worse._

_The road was empty. His heart was empty. Miles had left both._

He's gone_, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. Gone, and never coming back._

_He tried to move a limb, and this time it worked. How long had he been standing here, staring at the blank spot Edgeworth's taxi had once occupied? At least a couple of hours. He wondered if any of the neighbors had noticed._

_Slowly, lethargically, he turned on his heel and walked back into the house, trying to figure out what had happened. Miles had gotten into that taxi and driven off, and he hadn't done a damn thing about it._

_He closed his eyes as he leaned against a doorframe wearily. God, after all this, one would think he could stand to be a little more alert, but here he was, exhausted and sluggish for some reason—so much that he couldn't even chase after Edgeworth._

_But not so tired that he couldn't shed a few tears, pathetic though that was._

_He had cried only a few times in his life. The classroom trial. Finding out about Dahlia's betrayal. Mia's death. Miles' disappearance following the resolution of DL-6. And now Miles again._

_Miles, Miles, Miles. He had been the center of his life. Now he was gone, and he had taken everything with him._

_God, everything was wrong._

_When he was done weeping, he stumbled over to the bed and collapsed onto it, realizing as he did so that there was something clenched in his hand. The Magatama. He remembered the Psyche-Locks wrapping around Edgeworth as they spoke, remembered his shock at seeing how many of them there were._

_And he remembered his utter failure when it came to removing even one of them._

_Before he could stop himself, he threw it at the wall in frustration, thinking bitterly of all the good it had done him. It made a strange sound as it hit, like maybe it had broken on impact, but he didn't care. It was useless. _He_ was useless._

_He buried himself under the covers, trying to ignore the fact that they smelled like Miles, and attempted to fall asleep—he was certainly tired enough for that. But thoughts of Edgeworth's departure kept on running through his head, and so he was forced to remain awake, even as his eyes burned from exhaustion. Why the hell was he so sleepy, anyway? It was almost as if he had been—_

_Drugged, he thought dully. Of course. Edgeworth had probably put something in that dinner. And he had been stupid enough to eat it._

_He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't woken up. Miles would have left. He would have gotten up at the normal time and thought Edgeworth was at work, not noticing that anything was wrong until much later. But most importantly, the other would never have said all those things to him._

_All those things. He picked up his pillow and put it over his head, trying to block the words out._

_And then he found the note._

_No, no, not again, he thought to himself as he read the words: _Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death_. Was this his plan? To run off somewhere and hide? What was there to hide from? Himself? But why disappear under the cover of night, leaving only this note behind, if he were the problem, as Edgeworth had told him? Why not break up with him like a normal person?_

_Nothing made sense._

_He kept on coming back to one key fact: he wasn't supposed to have seen Miles leave. Everything the other man had said—maybe it was the truth, maybe it wasn't. But he knew that this ran deeper than it seemed._

_And with this in mind, he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Upset, hurt, broken, certainly. But not angry. Edgeworth had a reason—and as he laid there in bed, pressing the note to his chest, he swore to himself that he would discover it if it was the last thing he did._

_But then he got the call from Gumshoe, and everything flew out the window._


	15. Edgeworth, Part 8

A/N: Oh my God... over a hundred reviews? Holy crap. The response I've received to this story is... above and beyond anything I had ever hoped for. I mean, it's a kink meme fic, haha. Thank you so much, guys.

Anyway, uh this next scene was really quite awkward for me to write, but I assure you it is integral to the plot. Yes.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 8

Beckett withdraws his hand suddenly and nervously runs it over the back of his head.

"What's wrong?" Edgeworth asks, trying to keep the—annoyance? hurt? desperation?—out of his voice.

"Sorry," the other replies, looking pained. "I was… thinking about something." He smiles. "It's nothing, really. Anyway… now that we're thoroughly wet, I guess we should go back." The smile becomes a smirk as he holds out one hand. "I don't remember where the car is, though, so you're going to have to lead me."

Well, that was bold. "Very well," he says, taking the proffered hand and smirking in return.

Together, the two of them make their way to the blue sports car and get in. Again, the ride is made in near silence, though there's something more to it this time that he can't quite put his finger on.

"I had a good time," Beckett says, a little awkwardly, as Edgeworth parks in front of the café.

"So did I."

"We… should do this again."

He remembers the feel of Beckett's hand in his own. "Yes."

They sit quietly for a few moments. For some reason, he can feel his heart pumping faster and faster.

Beckett breaks the silence. "My motel is right nearby."

Edgeworth glances at him, but his expression is impossible to make out in the dim lighting.

"If you think I'm implying something," the other says, his face pointed straight ahead, "I probably am."

His heartbeat seems to quicken.

They tumble out of the car at the same time and walk as fast as they can to the motel without losing their dignity. As soon as Beckett unlocks the door, Edgeworth pushes him into the room and begins kissing him furiously, almost completely unaware of how dark it is.

"Hold on, Evan, we're going to knock something over," Beckett gasps when Edgeworth comes up for air.

"I don't care," he says, pushing him back until they hit something hard. A wall. Well, they won't be knocking anything over here.

"Mmph" is the only sound Beckett can make in reply before finally beginning to reciprocate properly, his hands reaching up toward the back of his neck to pull him closer before moving toward the front of his shirt to undo the buttons. All the while, their lips are practically glued together, and Edgeworth thinks with a pang of guilt that if he ignores the clinking of their glasses, kissing Beckett feels exactly like kissing _Phoenix_.

His stomach lurches slightly. Christ, he can't entertain these thoughts, he knows, but they're so hard to ignore. In the darkness, he can imagine it's the same hands touching his body and the same lips pressed against his own, and the idea is so appealing, so tantalizing; it's been three long years since he's felt like this—

_No, no_, the sane part of his mind interrupts. This is Beckett. Though they are similar, they are not the same.

But he can pretend, he can _pretend_, he just misses him so much—

"Phoenix," he murmurs thickly.

He doesn't notice that he has said the forbidden name until Beckett pulls away abruptly. "Did… did you just…?"

And then he realizes what he has done.

He steps backwards quickly, trying not to trip over himself in the dark as he buttons his shirt. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I—I can't do this." Oh, God, he's just called Beckett _Phoenix_.

"Evan…"

"I have to go. I'll see you later." He's lying, of course; he has no intention of ever returning to that café. In one day, he's managed to betray the two men he's ever felt anything romantic toward. How can he face either of them ever again?

"What—"

"I'm sorry. Goodbye." Edgeworth opens the door, squinting at the sudden light from the hall, and turns to face the other. He can't think of what to say. "I… hope your eyesight gets better," he mumbles finally, and before Beckett can reply he steps outside and shuts the door behind him.

And as he walks back out to his car, shivering from the dampness of his clothes, he can't help but feel as if he's leaving Phoenix all over again.

--o--

"_Miles?"_

_Edgeworth froze at the sound of his voice. Phoenix was supposed to be asleep…_

_He turned around slowly and found the other man standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but an undershirt and boxers and looking confused. "What are you doing here?"_

_Phoenix shrugged. "Could ask you the same question, I guess." His words were thick, slurred. Still drugged, then. And yet he was awake._

_"I…" He hadn't planned for this. He was supposed to leave in silence without seeing that face, those eyes, that rumpled hair ever again. But it was too late to turn back. He had come this far—now to see it through to the end. "I'm leaving."_

_"Leaving?" His eyes darted toward the duffel. "Oh." He blinked a few times, as if trying to clear his head. "Why…?"_

_And there it was. Whatever he said next had to be devastating enough so that Phoenix wouldn't follow him—not that he was in any state to do so, but he had to cover his bases. "I'm leaving _you_."_

_The other's eyebrows furrowed. "What? No. I-I don't understand."_

_"I don't need you anymore," he snapped, sliding his right hand into a pocket as he did so. If Phoenix saw that he was still wearing the ring, it was over._

_"Don't… need me?" Edgeworth thought he could hear his voice catching. _Oh, God, the things I'm saying.

_"Did you really think," he answered quietly, his mind racing as he struggled to come up with something, "that I could spend the rest of my life standing by just one man, living in just one city, doing nothing but this one job? I was raised to become something great, and I'll be damned if I let you stand in my way."_

_Phoenix flinched visibly, and it was all Edgeworth could do to stop himself from reaching out and saying no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, all I ever wanted was to stand by your side forever._

_"You promised," Phoenix whispered._

_"What? What did I promise?"_

_"The ring," he said. His voice seemed a little stronger now._

_But Edgeworth was prepared. He took his hand out of his pocket and showed him his fingers. "I threw the ring away. I lied. Everybody lies. You, of all people, should know that."_

_"Then—" Phoenix was breathing quickly now, looking both angry and hurt—"Then what the hell were the past two years for? You tied yourself down by asking me to move in. If you're so ambitious, why—why bother? What was the point?"_

_"Manipulation is part of my life. Old habits… die hard." It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his voice steady, but he had to. If he failed, if he faltered, the plan would collapse, and von Karma would strike Phoenix down himself._

_"I… thought you changed."_

_He shrugged. "It seems you were wrong."_

_They stared at each other without saying anything for several moments. Finally, Phoenix spoke. "You're lying."_

_"I told you already. Everybody lies."_

_"No. A-about this. There's something you're not telling me." His voice was shaking._

_"But you can't prove it."_

_Phoenix jerked backwards a little, and Edgeworth knew he was right. Evidence was everything._

_Again, blue eyes regarded gray ones, but this time, it was the sound of a car approaching that interrupted the silence. "That's my taxi," Edgeworth said. He picked up his duffel and took a few steps back. Phoenix didn't move. "I'm going now."_

_"Miles," the other murmured, and there was a quiet desperation in his voice. "Please…"_

_Time for the final nail in the coffin. He walked over to the cab and pulled the door open, then turned to look at Phoenix. "Goodbye, Wright." And he stepped inside._

_As the car pulled away, he half-expected to see the other man giving chase, but he was still just standing there, arms hanging limply at his sides, rapidly shrinking as the taxi drove further down the road. Only when he was gone completely could Edgeworth bring himself to look away._

_His hand reached into his pocket and found the ring. "Phoenix," he whispered as he held it close to his heart, hating himself for all the things he had said._

_And as the name tumbled from his lips, he swore that his traitorous mouth would never form that word again._


	16. Phoenix, Part 8

A/N: Oh snap, this is and will remain the longest part by far. It's also the last of the flashback scenes, so we are finally nearing the end! By the way, if you don't want to believe that Phoenix woke up in time for the confrontation because he is lucky and awesome, I read somewhere that crushed sleeping pills (which Edgeworth gave him) work faster but don't last as long, so... that's science for you? Heh heh heh.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 8

Everything is wrong.

No, everything is right.

Without thinking, he runs his hand over the back of his head, trying to separate past and present. Everything _was_ wrong. Now everything is right.

"What's wrong?" Evan asks, and he notices with alarm that he has just let go of his hand.

"Sorry, I was… thinking about something," he replies quickly, realizing he has probably hurt Evan's feelings. He forces a smile to hide his distress. "It's nothing, really. Anyway…" He pauses, trying to think of what he can say to smooth over the situation. And then he has it: "Now that we're thoroughly wet, I guess we should go back. I don't remember where the car is, though, so you're going to have to lead me." A smirk appears as he holds a hand out.

Evan looks amused, but he agrees and their fingers intertwine once more.

As they walk back, he can't help but feel that the way their hands fit in one another, wet though they are, seems so perfect somehow, so comforting. It reminds him of something happy from his past, though he can't recall it. He never wants it to end.

It does eventually, of course, since Evan needs both hands to drive. But there is a tension humming through the air as they meander through the slick roads, and he tries to address it as soon as Evan parks. "I had a good time."

Evan is staring straight ahead, hands still on the wheel. "So did I."

"We… should do this again."

The other looks downward. "Yes."

He tries to think of what to say next as silence falls upon them. Once again, he gets that feeling that _something_ is going to happen today, something more than just holding hands in the rain, but it all depends on what comes out of his mouth now.

It is, perhaps, a little too forward. But that tautness in the air is still there, and he knows it's on both of their minds. "My motel is right nearby."

Evan turns to face him, and he knows he's trying to make out the expression behind the sunglasses. He can just make out the sounds of the other man's heart beating wildly—or is it his own? He doesn't know.

But he continues to speak, staring out at the road. "If you think I'm implying something… I probably am."

A split second passes before they move at once, stepping out of the blue sports car and walking briskly to the motel. Once he has the door open, Evan nearly shoves him into the room, kissing him with an intensity he hadn't known the other man would possess.

As soon as he gets over the shock of being pushed inside so quickly, he realizes that at the rate Evan's going, they'll be destroying all the furniture. He says as much, but the other man doesn't seem to care, just pushing him back further into the wall.

Well, if this is the way it's going to be, he might as well enjoy it. He reaches around to the back of Evan's neck, feeling like there's something there he should be unclasping, but an awkward fumble around the area tells him that there is nothing aside from the shirt collar. Briefly confused, he moves back to the front of the shirt and begins undoing the buttons as fast as he can—he wants to rip it right off, of course, but something tells him Evan wouldn't appreciate that.

The whole situation seems to awaken some sort of physical memory within him—like he's done all this before in a past life, but he just can't remember the context.

Even the name Evan mumbles seems right.

"Phoenix," he hears.

And then he realizes just how strange that is, for a name to sound so fitting like this.

He pulls away, trying to clear his mind as the word bounces around in his head. _Phoenix Phoenix Phoenix._ "Did… did you just…?"

Evan steps back, and though it's dark, he can just barely make out the other's terrified face. "I'm sorry," he gasps. "I—I can't do this."

He stares at him blankly, still trying to figure out the significance of the name. "Evan," he begins.

But the other man is already walking away. "I have to go," he says. "I'll see you later."

"What—"

"I'm sorry. Goodbye." He opens the door and is briefly illuminated by the light from the hallway. They look at each other for a second before he continues, "I… hope your eyesight gets better." And then the door shuts, and Evan is gone.

He momentarily considers chasing after him, but his head is throbbing as his mind continues to repeat that name. _Phoenix Phoenix Phoenix._

It means something. He knows it does.

And then the rest of his life comes rushing back to him.

--o--

_He dreamed of a day a year and a half ago, when Miles Edgeworth had taken his hand and kissed his forehead, and everything became beautiful and brilliant._

_But then he said _goodbye_, and that brilliance faded and the dream became a nightmare._

_Consciousness returned. He woke up to feel a hand slipping away from his own and heard the sounds of someone moving around. Edgeworth? Maybe he was just going to the bathroom._

_For several moments, he laid there in silence, his hand running up and down Miles' side of the bed, which was still warm. But as the minutes passed and Edgeworth didn't come back, he realized that maybe something was wrong. "Miles?" he said loudly, surprised at how thick his voice sounded. There was no answer._

_He stumbled out of bed—a remarkably difficult task, given that he was utterly exhausted—and made his way around the house, calling out the other's name while trying desperately to keep his eyes open. Edgeworth had just been in bed with him, he knew it. So where was he now?_

_As he passed by the doorway, he thought that maybe he saw someone standing on the porch outside. Miles, probably, he thought… but why?_

_On a whim, he staggered over to his suit, which was draped over a chair, and fished out the Magatama. Just in case._

_And then he opened the door._

_There he was, clad in his trademark magenta suit, and though he was facing the other way, he knew the cravat would be there too. It was as if he were about to go to work._

_Except it was midnight._

_"Miles?" he asked stupidly. Of course it was Miles. But his head didn't appear to be working right now._

_The other turned to look at him, the faintest trace of surprise written on his face. "What are you doing here?"_

_"Could ask you the same question, I guess," he said with a shrug. His words sounded slurred, and he couldn't figure out why. He had been tired before, but his brain seemed to be remarkably slow right now. Something wasn't right._

_"I… I'm leaving," Edgeworth said._

_"Leaving?" He looked down at the ground, where a duffel bag was sitting. "Oh." And then he realized that that still didn't make sense. "Why?"_

_A pause. "I'm leaving _you_."_

_The Magatama, he noticed with dismay, wasn't reacting, so this much, at least, was the truth. But why was he leaving him? This was getting more and more confusing by the second. "What? No. I-I don't understand."_

_"I don't need you anymore."_

_He blinked, once, twice, as he felt the words pierce his heart. "Don't… need me?" He was aware of how pathetic he was sounding, but he couldn't stop himself. _I don't need you anymore._ How could he say that? The days, weeks, months they had shared together, laughing, smiling—he had never seen Miles happier. Did all of that mean nothing to him?_

_"Did you really think that I could spend the rest of my life standing by just one man, living in just one city, doing nothing but this one job?" Edgeworth's voice was quiet, but he could hear the bite behind it. And it tore him apart. "I was raised to become something great, and I'll be damned if I let you stand in my way."_

_And then the world became black as silver chains snaked their way around the other man, held tightly in place by scarlet Psyche-Locks—one, two… too many to count. He flinched in surprise. There was so much more to this that Edgeworth wasn't letting on, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to find out what._

_Nevertheless, his mind cast around wildly for something to say. "You promised," he whispered at last._

_Miles' reply was harsh. "What? What did I promise?"_

_"The ring," he answered, gaining some confidence now. Edgeworth had accepted his proposal. That had to mean something._

_But his self-assurance disappeared as soon as it had come. "I threw the ring away," he said, showing him his right hand, which, to his shock, had nothing on it. "I lied. Everybody lies. You, of all people, should know that."_

_His breathing quickened. Miles was just delivering one blow after another, and it was almost more than he could take. But no, he couldn't give up. There had to be something. "Then—then what the hell were the past two years for? You tied yourself down by asking me to move in. If you're so ambitious, why—why bother? What was the point?"_

_"Manipulation is part of my life," he replied easily. "Old habits… die hard."_

_None of the Psyche-Locks were breaking. Oh, God, he couldn't get through, and meanwhile, Edgeworth was reaching into his heart and squeezing everything out. "I… thought you changed," he said, trying not to believe it._

_Miles shrugged. "It seems you were wrong."_

_How could he shrug like that, as if it were just some trivial matter? How could he look into his eyes and destroy everything he ever knew so casually?_

_He had to confront him head-on. "You're lying."_

_"I told you already. Everybody lies."_

_"No," he said, and he couldn't hide the tremor that came through. "A-about this. There's something you're not telling me."_

_"But you can't prove it."_

_He nearly dropped the Magatama as the words washed over him. No, he _couldn't_ prove it, he realized. Everything he said, Edgeworth countered. Nothing he did was working. And in the meantime, he was crumbling like a broken wall._

_He stared into the other's gray eyes, struggling to find a way to break through the barrier the other had put up. He wanted to slap him, hold him, kiss him—do _something_ physical to him that might elicit a response. But his body refused to comply; whenever he told his foot to move forward, it remained rooted to the ground. He was frozen._

_And then a car pulled into the driveway and Miles was stepping further away and mumbling something about his taxi and God, things were moving too fast._

_"I'm going now," Edgeworth said._

_It couldn't end like this. There was a truth he needed to uncover. But already the Psyche-Locks were fading from view as the distance between them increased, vanishing from sight as quickly as his hopes. "Miles," he whispered desperately, trying to stall for more time. "Please…"_

_Please what? Don't go? Tell me the truth? Take everything back? He couldn't decide, and in the end, it was too late._

_Edgeworth was looking at him, his fingers curled around the door handle. "Goodbye, Wright."_

_And somehow that hurt more than anything else he had said. He was suddenly back to nothing more than an impersonal last name, back to just another fleeting figure in Miles' life. It was as if the past year and a half had never existed._

_And so even as Edgeworth got into the cab and drove away while his mind was screaming at his useless body to move, the word flitted around his head, taunting him mercilessly: Wright, Wright, Wright. Nothing more, and so much less._

_Once the taxi was out of sight, he found himself beginning to laugh as he considered the cruel joke his name was. He was Wright in a world that couldn't be more wrong. Ironic, heartbreaking, hilarious._

_Phoenix Wright._

_He laughed._

_It burned._


	17. Edgeworth, Part 9

A/N: Alright, in a bit of a rush as I'm trying to study for a final I'm fairly sure I'm going to fail (why, linear algebra, why?), so yeah uh uploading this before I forget. No more flashbacks oh emme gee.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 9

He doesn't sleep that night, unable to comprehend the idiocy of his actions. After three years, he has finally developed a romantic interest in another person—and alright, it's probably because of his resemblance to Phoenix that this interest developed in the first place, but nevertheless. _Three years._ And then he throws it all away by being an utter moron and calling him by the wrong name.

Meanwhile, he feels guilty about having this romantic interest in the first place. Phoenix is still out there somewhere, and Edgeworth knows that the back of his mind, at the very least, will always be thinking about him.

Not that it really matters, he reflects bitterly, since he can no longer bring himself to face Beckett.

Both of them deserve so much better, and he himself deserves nothing at all.

He's gotten fairly good at blocking it out after all this time, but every now and then it returns in full force: the self-loathing. And at the moment, with the memories of leaving not one, but _two_ men behind, it's stronger than ever.

He knows. He _knows_ that it is because of von Karma that all of this happened, that he had to fake his death in order to save Phoenix's life. He knows that if he hadn't acted, something terrible would have happened.

But weren't his last words to him, he thinks, a terrible thing in itself? Even if he had taken the figurative gun to shoot him in the shoulder so that von Karma would not shoot him in the heart, wasn't it still a shot nonetheless? Wasn't it _he_ who had pulled the trigger?

So in the end, he's the one who broke Phoenix, not von Karma.

And he hates himself for it.

There is nothing more he wants than to see him again, nothing more than to tell him how sorry he is for all of this, nothing more than to hear him say _I still love you, Miles_—still love him the way he has foolishly, pathetically, hopelessly loved Phoenix for all this time, going so far as to latch onto someone else because he was just so _similar_ to him. He needs this, _needs_ this if he expects to ever feel at peace with himself—but it will never happen, and he knows it, especially not after that night three years ago, especially not when the other man thinks he's dead.

It sears his already shattered heart.

At six, he tears his eyes away from the ceiling of his bedroom and gets ready for work, attempting to curtail his increasingly cynical thoughts. It's funny, he thinks as he drives over to the school, how much of Phoenix there still is in his life, even though he left him so long ago. There's the ring, for one. The blue sports car, for another. And tucked away in the desk in his classroom is the drawing he made, with von Karma's letters still hidden behind it. Phoenix is nowhere, yet everywhere.

Not that the thought improves his mood; if anything, it worsens it. He is irritable toward his morning classes, fueled by his own anger at himself and his lack of sleep the night before, telling his students to learn the damn difference between _Near v. Minnesota_ and _New York Times v. Sullivan_ if they ever want to get into college.

He can hear them whispering about him as they filter out of the room, but he doesn't care. They'll forget eventually. And even if they don't… well, it doesn't really matter. He doesn't mind this new job—it's nice, he thinks, to impart knowledge onto others, and even nicer when a student comes up to him at the end of the year, telling him that he's inspired the kid to go into government or law or some other related field—but aside from that, there's nothing life-changing about it. Teaching lacks the thrills of prosecution, when someone's freedom would actually hang in the balance, when he would struggle to uncover the truth, with Phoenix standing at the other end of the courtroom, fighting for the same thing. The way they worked together—it was like some sort of elaborate dance, perfectly crafted and executed. But he'll never partake in it again.

He shuts his eyes. Everything he's thinking of today is depressing. And whenever he tries to dredge up a happy memory of either Phoenix or Beckett, the other one comes along and taints it. No rest for the wicked, he supposes.

His reverie is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Thinking that maybe it's a student with a question on the most recent lecture, he straightens and tries not to look so pained.

But it's not a student.

It's Beckett.


	18. Phoenix, Part 9

A/N: I apologize in advance and you will see why. ;)

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 9

_My name is Phoenix Wright._

He remembers, and even though it isn't the most pleasant of memories, it is beautiful nonetheless: he has an identity again.

_I came to Washington, D.C. to search out a man named Miles Edgeworth, who faked his death after leaving me three years ago._

The things Edgeworth had said right before his departure had cut through his heart. They'd been precise and destructive, calculating and impersonal. He can't help but feel a searing pain whenever he thinks of them. And yet…

_I met a man here named Evan Morgan. And he told me that there had been someone in his life, once. Someone who gave him a ring he still wears._

He had been surprised at the emphatic bond between himself and Evan, surprised at the parallels between their lives. They just fit together so well. And now, he knows, there is a reason for that.

_Evan Morgan is Miles Edgeworth._

The silver hair, the gray eyes—now that Phoenix remembers them, there is no mistaking it. They are one and the same. _Shocked_ cannot even begin to describe what he felt when he realized this. The man he has been meeting up with, talking to for these past few months—it's the same man he's been searching for this whole time. Impossible. Ridiculous. But it had somehow happened. And Miles—_Miles_, not Evan—still has the ring he had given him so long ago; he never threw it away after all. And if he had lied about that, then there's a chance that…

_He still needs me._

For the past three years he has been tormented by Edgeworth's last words. They had consumed his life, enough that he had gone on this wild goose chase to find out the meaning behind them. He knew that what Miles had said wasn't quite the truth, but he had never known exactly where the lie was.

But now, he thinks, he's found it. Perhaps. He remembers the ring, the art museums, the wistful look that appeared on Edgeworth's face the few times he mentioned the man from his past. And so one thing is for certain: he is still, for whatever reason, hanging onto the memory of Phoenix—which in turn suggests that he still means something to the other. And he is determined to find out what that something is. All the pieces are here; now to put them together.

And so the noon of the next day finds Phoenix sitting in a taxi headed straight for Edgeworth's high school. On the way there, he can't help but laugh a little at the absurdity of the situation. As Beckett and Evan, they touched each other's lives. They had _connected_—emotionally, mentally, physically. Yet as Phoenix and Edgeworth, they were nothing more than shadows passing in the night, barely seen and never heard, never felt, grazing past each other with only the barest of contact.

He still can't quite believe how they managed to miss each other so completely. If that accident hadn't happened, if he had walked into that café still looking like himself, still knowing what Edgeworth looked like… what would he have done?

Probably not what he's doing now, calmly seated in a cab and feeling surprisingly at ease over the coming confrontation. Still nervous, for sure—there are a lot of things that remain unclear about the whole situation. But he knows more now than he did when he first set out to find the other man two years ago. It's strange, but maybe the whole Beckett façade was for the better: it's given him an opportunity to catch glimpses of the truth for himself and the possibility of receiving an honest, unbiased answer from Miles.

Not to mention a chance to fall in love with him again.

And it is this thought that comforts him the most. To him, this—this and the fact that Edgeworth had _allowed_ it to happen—is irrefutable evidence that they belong together, ridiculously cheesy and romantic though it sounds. And knowing that, he has a feeling that everything will somehow be okay, even when he still winces at Miles' parting words, even when he still cannot fathom just _why_ he left in the first place when he so clearly still feels something toward him.

He is still haunted by the events of three years past, but it doesn't matter: everything will be revealed soon enough.

The taxi pulls up in front of Benjamin Banneker. He jumps out as soon as the cab stops, throws some money at the driver, then bounds into the school and talks his way into a visitor's pass. From there, he checks the room roster and makes his way toward Edgeworth's classroom, his heart beating furiously as he goes over the things he's going to say. The truth is right at his fingertips.

But the door to the room is closed. His breath catches in his throat—what if he's gone? Only one way to find out.

He turns the handle. It opens.

And there he is. Miles Edgeworth, not Evan Morgan. _Miles Edgeworth._ His breathing quickens as he stares at the man his life has revolved around for over twenty years. Here. Finally. At last.

"Beckett," Edgeworth says in a strained voice, looking up at him in shock.

"Evan," he greets, and his mind has to remind him that _he took away three years of your life_ to prevent himself from throwing his body onto the other man and telling him _Miles, Miles, you overdramatic bastard, disappearing on me like that, do you know how much I missed you?_ He has to do this carefully, one step at a time. He's searched for far too long to screw up now.

"How… what are you doing here?"

He shuts the door behind him, thankful that Edgeworth has no class right now. "I just wanted to ask you a few things."

Miles shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I suppose you deserve an explanation. Go… go ahead."

The impulse to leap onto Edgeworth has mostly passed. He needs to be calm about this, needs to play the one advantage he has right now: that Miles feels guilty over what happened, because he doesn't know who Beckett really is. "You called me by another name last night. Phoenix. Why?"

"I…" He looks down to the side and clutches at one arm. "I'm sorry. Phoenix is someone from my past. You… reminded me of him."

"Did he give you that ring?"

Edgeworth jerks back a little, and Phoenix wonders if maybe he's pressing too hard. But the other replies nevertheless. "Yes."

And now for the most important part. "Do you still need him?"

"What? What kind of a question is that?" The faintest hint of annoyance slips into his voice. "Beckett, I understand you're hurt, and I apologize for that, but the fact of the matter is that some of us are going to have people from our pasts who we'll never forget, and you'll just have to accept that—"

Phoenix holds up one hand. "Please. I just want to know. Do you still need him?"

Miles closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out. He can barely hear his reply. "Yes."

And suddenly it's as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

His answer is singing, reverberating in his mind, and though it's stupid for one little word to make him feel so good, he can't stop the slow smile forming on his face, can't stop the bubble of laughter that rises from his throat. _Three years_ he's walked around, hearing Miles snap _I don't need you anymore_ into his ear. But now he _knows_ it was never the truth.

"Beckett…?"

Phoenix stops laughing for a second to see the other man halfway out of his seat, looking concerned. He takes a few breaths to calm himself. "I'm sorry," he says, still smiling. "You—you don't know yet what that means to me, do you…?" One hand reaches out to the light switch and flicks it off, while the other removes the sunglasses and beanie.

"…Miles Edgeworth."


	19. Edgeworth, Part 10

A/N: Blargh I hope this is not too much of a let-down. Also, this is Edgeworth's last part. Which means...?

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Edgeworth, Part 10

He's different, and yet he's exactly the same.

The face is thinner, more careworn, and the stubble definitely wasn't there three years ago. But the eyes are as bright and blue as ever, even with only the ambient light coming in from outside to illuminate them, and that hair—that hair remains utterly ridiculous, still somehow managing to retain some of its spikiness despite being cooped up in a hat all day and the lack of gel.

He can't believe it.

Beckett is Phoenix.

"Are you just going to stare at me all day, Miles?" Phoenix asks, grinning smugly—how many times has he seen Beckett grin like that from behind the sunglasses? How could he have missed this so completely?

His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. This has to be a dream. It's too good to be real. Phoenix, here, after all this time—is it even possible?

The wobbly eyebrows he loves so much, the ones he hasn't seen for three years, raise in amusement. "Aw, come on, say something. You were talkative enough before."

Finally, his voice returns. "I… y-you… Beckett," he stammers out. Very coherent.

"Yeah, I only figured that out myself a few hours ago," Phoenix—_Phoenix_—says, looking thoughtful for a second before the grin appears again. "I daresay our little get-together helped to jog my memory."

He blinks. Truth now, emotions later. "What are you talking about?"

"I never did tell you much about myself as Beckett, did I?" he replies, walking forward and seating himself at the desk closest to Edgeworth. "I told you I was searching for someone. Turns out it was _you_. But I couldn't put it together because you were going by a different name and I couldn't remember what you looked like."

"How—"

"Car accident," Phoenix answers. "I took your car. And I drove around looking for you. On my way to D.C., I crashed into a tree and lost my memory. It also screwed with my eyesight, which is why we're sitting here with the lights off right now. It… took time for it all to come back to me."

"You were always a terrible driver," Edgeworth murmurs. Everything still seems so surreal to him—three years, and yet here they are, talking as if no time has passed at all. He wants to reach out to touch him, to hold him, to confirm that this is all really happening, and yet he's afraid that if he does, the dream will shatter. And so he allows only his mouth to move; he can't let any of his emotions show until he knows this is true. It's easy; his whole life has been about hiding his feelings. "How did you know I was _alive_?"

"Miles," Phoenix replies, his voice low—and Edgeworth notices that the confidence, the happiness he had displayed only moments ago has all but vanished. In its place is a hollow sort of anguish. "I dropped art and went through law school to save a man I had known for only a few months as a child. You should know. I'm the most stubborn person to ever exist. I would never have given up on you. I _didn't_ give up on you. They never retrieved your body, and that was enough for me to start searching."

Edgeworth looks down at his hands. "And you found me."

"Yes. I… saw you were nominated for a teaching award. Congratulations."

He snorts. "That was almost as embarrassing as the King of Prosecutors trophy."

They smile tentatively at each other from across the table. He remains unable to wrap his mind around it. Both of them, here, across the country. Together.

This is his chance, he realizes. His chance to apologize for everything. His chance to make amends with Phoenix—and himself.

But even though one part of the impossible has already happened—that the other man is even _here_ in the first place to give him this opportunity—he cannot expect more of the same to follow. The words sound outlandish even in his own head: _I'm sorry I did all those things to you three years ago, but I still love you so I hope you still love me and we can live happily ever after._

It's ludicrous. But he has to try.

"Phoenix," he begins, noticing how the other's eyes still crinkle in the same way upon hearing the name, "I… hurt you."

The other man looks like he's trying not to laugh. "No shit, Miles."

He winces, but continues on. "I'm very sorry about that."

"I thought as much." A small smile ghosts the other man's lips. "You did just say you still needed me, after all. It's…" He grins. "God, it's good to know."

"Then…" He tries to figure out what this means. "Where do we stand?"

"I—I don't know."

His hand jerks involuntarily. "What?" But of course. Phoenix isn't going to tell him that everything is sunshine and daisies now, and Edgeworth doesn't deserve to hear it.

"You said you were sorry. But Miles…" His smile becomes ironic and bitter. "I need you to _prove it_," he finishes, echoing the words of three years past. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a creased piece of paper. Edgeworth recognizes it immediately—it's the suicide note. He can't believe Phoenix is still holding onto it. "As you've probably guessed, most of what I want to know revolves around this. Please. You… don't know what I've been through. I've waited so long to find out. Tell me what happened three years ago."

His voice is quiet, but the longing is clearly there. And as Edgeworth looks into those piercing blue eyes, he realizes that he needs to say it as much as Phoenix needs to hear it. For better or for worse, he cannot keep these secrets hidden any longer.

And so he speaks.


	20. Phoenix, Part 10

A/N: Holy Batman, after over a month, we're finally here. I hope this ending is not made of too much suck.

* * *

Shadows Passing  
Phoenix, Part 10

"I wanted to protect you" is the first thing he hears.

The next sound that comes to him is that of a drawer opening as Edgeworth reaches in and pulls something out. A picture frame.

He sees what's inside. "You kept that? And _framed_ it?" he asks, and his heart swells a little more. Everything bad he's felt toward Edgeworth, all the pain and hurt and bitterness—he feels it dissipating with each passing second. But he cannot let his guard down completely, not until he knows Miles really means it, not until he knows this isn't some elaborate ruse. "It was just a sketch."

The other man looks at him over his glasses. "You drew me. Of course I kept it. There's more in here than just that, though." He dissembles the frame and extracts from it three folded pieces of paper, then spreads them out across his desk. Phoenix moves his chair closer to see. "I received these after we… ah, began dating. Staggered over a period of several months. They… were from von Karma."

Phoenix's eyebrows furrow as he tries to remember. "That case was over seven years ago."

"Well, he's one to hold a grudge," Edgeworth says. "Especially against the man who put him in jail. I know how he thinks. And so… when I saw these, I knew what he was going to do. And then I knew what _I_ had to do."

He continues to explain von Karma's reasoning and his own convoluted plan—including how Phoenix's appearance that night three years ago had nearly ruined everything, how he had to come up with something devastating to tell him so that he would not be followed.

And so the pieces click into place; everything begins to make a twisted kind of sense. Relief washes over Phoenix as he comes to the realization that he's been right all along—Miles had had a reason for doing all this. But one thing sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Why," he asks slowly when Edgeworth is done, "didn't you just _tell me_?"

The other frowns. "Isn't it obvious? I couldn't ask you to do what I did. I couldn't ask you to leave everything behind."

Phoenix lets out a bark of laughter. God, it's so typical of him to underestimate other people, and somehow it's infinitely amusing. "Miles, can't you see? I did all that anyway."

Edgeworth stares at him—and then, to Phoenix's surprise, he begins to tremble. "Forgive me," he whispers.

And he realizes that Miles has suffered as much as he has.

In a flash, Phoenix is by his side, holding the other man as he shivers violently. "It's okay," he soothes, stroking the other's silver hair. "It's going to be fine. I found you. We're together."

His slate-gray eyes are wide as they stare straight ahead. "I ruined your life."

"You were trying to save me. And it worked. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"If only—"

"Miles," he snaps, grabbing the other's face and turning it to face his own, "none of that matters. You did what you thought you had to do. And in the end, everything turned out alright. You're safe. I'm safe."

But he's still shivering, and so Phoenix gently leads him out of his chair and sits him down on the floor so that his back is to the wall, then follows suit, with one arm wrapping around the other man. "Inhale," he says softly. Edgeworth looks at him in surprise. Phoenix smiles. "Do you remember?"

"There's no earthquake," he mumbles, but the trembling seems to have lessened.

"Shh," he whispers in reply, cradling the other's head against his body. "Don't think about anything right now. Just inhale. Exhale. Don't cry." He repeats the last three phrases over and over again, waiting for Edgeworth to be still, waiting for their breathing to become in sync. Miles is mouthing something soundlessly; he can't make out what it is, but it seems to help.

And finally, the other man is calm. "Phoenix," he murmurs.

"What is it?"

A pause. "I… missed you." He looks embarrassed.

Phoenix laughs lightly. "I missed you too, Miles. I didn't come all the way out here to find a man I hated."

Edgeworth is silent for a moment before answering. "You didn't hate me?"

"I knew you had to have a reason, even if I didn't know what it was," he replies. "And I was right. I found the truth, and now we're here together, and everything will be okay."

"But we can never go back. To California. Not as long as von Karma is still alive."

"That's fine."

"You might not be able to be a defense attorney anymore."

"I'll find another job."

The other man glances up at him. "I'm trying to tell you that if you want to stay here, your life won't be the same."

"And I'm trying to tell you that that doesn't matter, as long as my life has you in it." He tilts his head towards Miles. "I asked you to promise to spend the rest of your life with me once. I still stand by my question. Has your answer changed?"

One of Edgeworth's hands—the one with the ring on it—takes his own. "No. It hasn't."

He squeezes. "That's all I need to hear."

Several minutes pass by in silence. And then: "I thought about you every day. I still loved you. Love you. For all these years."

"I know," Phoenix murmurs.

Miles tenses abruptly within his arms, and he suddenly realizes that maybe the other man is waiting for him to say something more in return. _Oh, Edgeworth_, he thinks. _I never thought I'd see the day when you needed to hear these words._

And he knows that if Miles feels this way, feels like he actually needs to hear him say it, then this is it, his incontrovertible proof. And everything that happened three years ago—Phoenix can forgive.

"I still love you too," he whispers, and means it.

They turn to face each other, and before he knows it, Miles' lips are on his own—and though their noses bump a little awkwardly, and Phoenix isn't entirely sure what to make of Edgeworth's glasses pressing into his face, it still somehow feels as perfect as ever. It's almost as if he is being reborn: even the light filtering into the room, which seemed so harsh and bright before, is softer now. Everything is right with the world again.

Phoenix Wright.

As he pulls Miles closer to him, hearing the other man breathe his name into his ear, he thinks that maybe it's not such a cruel joke after all.

* * *

A/N: Fin! I did my best to tie everything together, though I've always been rather horrible at that, so I apologize if there are any gaping plot holes. Basically the whole point of Edgeworth's suicide gig was to throw von Karma off the scent, so no one (except for Phoenix now, lolz) knows he's alive and in D.C. Yeah.

That said, thank you to the OP of the prompt (even though he/she will probably never see this), the anons (and not-so-anons!) who kept up with this fic over at the meme, and of course, everyone who read and reviewed here. :D I never would have thought this story would have been received so well, so... yeah, wow, guys, you're freaking awesome. See you all around!


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